If I had youth no chains of fear should bind me;
 I'd brave the heights which older men must shun.
 I'd leave the well-worn lanes of life behind me,
 And seek to do what men have never done.
 Rich prizes wait for those who do not waver;
 The world needs men to battle for the truth.
 It calls each hour for stronger hearts and braver.
 This is the age for those who still have youth!

ACCOMPLISHED CARE

All things grow lovely in a little while,
 The brush of memory paints a canvas fair;
 The dead face through the ages wears a smile,
 And glorious becomes accomplished care.
There's nothing ugly that can live for long,
 There's nothing constant in the realm of pain;
 Right always comes to take the place of wrong,
 Who suffers much shall find the greater gain.
Life has a kindly way, despite its tears
 And all the burdens which its children bear;
 It crowns with beauty all the troubled years
 And soothes the hurts and makes their memory fair.
Be brave when days are bitter with despair,
 Be true when you are made to suffer wrong;
 Life's greatest joy is an accomplished care,
 There's nothing ugly that can live for long.

BULB PLANTING TIME

Last night he said the dead were dead
 And scoffed my faith to scorn;
 I found him at a tulip bed
 When I passed by at morn.
"O ho!" said I, "the frost is near
 And mist is on the hills,
 And yet I find you planting here
 Tulips and daffodils."
"'Tis time to plant them now," he said,
 "If they shall bloom in Spring";
 "But every bulb," said I, "seems dead,
 And such an ugly thing."
"The pulse of life I cannot feel,
 The skin is dried and brown.
 Now look!" a bulb beneath my heel
 I crushed and trampled down.
In anger then he said to me:
 "You've killed a lovely thing;
 A scarlet blossom that would be
 Some morning in the Spring."
"Last night a greater sin was thine,"
 To him I slowly said;
 "You trampled on the dead of mine
 And told me they are dead."

HIS OTHER CHANCE

He was down and out, and his pluck was gone,
 And he said to me in a gloomy way:
 "I've wasted my chances, one by one,
 And I'm just no good, as the people say.
 Nothing ahead, and my dreams all dust,
 Though once there was something I might have been,
 But I wasn't game, and I broke my trust,
 And I wasn't straight and I wasn't clean."
"You're pretty low down," says I to him,
 "But nobody's holding you there, my friend.
 Life is a stream where men sink or swim,
 And the drifters come to a sorry end;
 But there's two of you living and breathing still—
 The fellow you are, and he's tough to see,
 And another chap, if you've got the will,
 The man that you still have a chance to be."
He laughed with scorn. "Is there two of me?
 I thought I'd murdered the other one.
 I once knew a chap that I hoped to be,
 And he was decent, but now he's gone."
 "Well," says I, "it may seem to you
 That life has little of joy in store,
 But there's always something you still can do,
 And there's never a man but can try once more.

"His Other Chance" From a drawing by W. T. Benda. "His Other Chance"
From a drawing by W. T. Benda.

"There are always two to the end of time—
 The fellow we are and the future man.
 The Lord never meant you should cease to climb,
 And you can get up if you think you can.
 The fellow you are is a sorry sight,
 But you needn't go drifting out to sea.
 Get hold of yourself and travel right;
 There's a fellow you've still got a chance to be."

THE FAMILY DOCTOR

I've tried the high-toned specialists, who doctor folks to-day;
 I've heard the throat man whisper low "Come on now let us spray";
 I've sat in fancy offices and waited long my turn,
 And paid for fifteen minutes what it took a week to earn;
 But while these scientific men are kindly, one and all,
 I miss the good old doctor that my mother used to call.
The old-time family doctor! Oh, I am sorry that he's gone,
 He ushered us into the world and knew us every one;
 He didn't have to ask a lot of questions, for he knew
 Our histories from birth and all the ailments we'd been through.
 And though as children small we feared the medicines he'd send,
 The old-time family doctor grew to be our dearest friend.
No hour too late, no night too rough for him to heed our call;
 He knew exactly where to hang his coat up in the hall;
 He knew exactly where to go, which room upstairs to find
The patient he'd been called to see, and saying: "Never mind,
 I'll run up there myself and see what's causing all the fuss."
 It seems we grew to look and lean on him as one of us.
He had a big and kindly heart, a fine and tender way,
 And more than once I've wished that I could call him in to-day.
 The specialists are clever men and busy men, I know,
 And haven't time to doctor as they did long years ago;
 But some day he may come again, the friend that we can call,
 The good old family doctor who will love us one and all.

DENIAL

I'd like to give 'em all they ask—it hurts to have to answer, "No,"
 And say they cannot have the things they tell me they are wanting so;
 Yet now and then they plead for what I know would not be good to give
 Or what I can't afford to buy, and that's the hardest hour I live.
They little know or understand how happy I would be to grant
 Their every wish, yet there are times it isn't wise, or else I can't.
 And sometimes, too, I can't explain the reason when they question why
 Their pleadings for some passing joy it is my duty to deny.
I only know I'd like to see them smile forever on life's way;
 I would not have them shed one tear or ever meet a troubled day.
 And I would be content with life and gladly face each dreary task,
 If I could always give to them the little treasures that they ask.

"Denial" From a painting by F. C. Yohn. "Denial"
From a painting by F. C. Yohn.

Sometimes we pray to God above and ask for joys that are denied,
 And when He seems to scorn our plea, in bitterness we turn aside.
 And yet the Father of us all, Who sees and knows just what is best,
 May wish, as often here we wish, that He could grant what we request.

THE WORKMAN'S DREAM

To-day it's dirt and dust and steam,
 To-morrow it will be the same,
 And through it all the soul must dream
 And try to play a manly game;
 Dirt, dust and steam and harsh commands,
 Yet many a soft hand passes by
 And only thinks he understands
 The purpose of my task and why.
I've seen men shudder just to see
 Me standing at this lathe of mine,
 And knew somehow they pitied me,
 But I have never made a whine;
 For out of all this dirt and dust
 And clang and clamor day by day,
 Beyond toil's everlasting "must,"
 I see my little ones at play.
The hissing steam would drive me mad
 If hissing steam was all I heard;
 But there's a boy who calls me dad
 Who daily keeps my courage spurred;
 And there's a little girl who waits
 Each night for all that I may bring,
 And I'm the guardian of their fates,
 Which makes this job a wholesome thing.
Beyond the dust and dirt and steam
 I see a college where he'll go;
 And when I shall fulfill my dream,
 More than his father he will know;
 And she shall be a woman fair,
 Fit for the world to love and trust—
 I'll give my land a glorious pair
 Out of this place of dirt and dust.

THE HOMELY MAN

Looks as though a cyclone hit him—
 Can't buy clothes that seem to fit him;
 An' his cheeks are rough like leather,
 Made for standin' any weather.
 Outwards he wuz fashioned plainly,
 Loose o' joint an' blamed ungainly,
 But I'd give a lot if I'd
 Been prepared so fine inside.
Best thing I can tell you of him
 Is the way the children love him.
 Now an' then I get to thinkin'
 He is much like old Abe Lincoln—
 Homely like a gargoyle graven,
 An' looks worse when he's unshaven;
 But I'd take his ugly phiz
 Jes' to have a heart like his.
I ain't over-sentimental,
 But old Blake is so blamed gentle
 An' so thoughtful-like of others
 He reminds us of our mothers.
 Rough roads he is always smoothin',
 An' his way is, oh, so soothin'
 That he takes away the sting
 When your heart is sorrowing.

"The Homely Man" From a painting by M. L. Bower. "The Homely Man"
From a painting by M. L. Bower.

Children gather round about him
 Like they can't get on without him.
 An' the old depend upon him,
 Pilin' all their burdens on him,
 Like as though the thing that grieves 'em
 Has been lifted when he leaves 'em.
 Homely? That can't be denied.
 But he's glorious inside.

UNCHANGEABLE MOTHER

Mothers never change, I guess,
 In their tender thoughtfulness.
 Makes no difference that you grow
 Up to forty years or so,
 Once you cough, you'll find that she
 Sees you as you used to be,
 An' she wants to tell to you
 All the things that you must do.
Just show symptoms of a cold,
 She'll forget that you've grown old.
 Though there's silver in your hair,
 Still you need a mother's care,
 An' she'll ask you things like these:
 "You still wearing b. v. d.'s?
 Summer days have long since gone,
 You should have your flannels on."
Grown and married an' maybe
 Father of a family,
 But to mother you are still
 Just her boy when you are ill;
 Just the lad that used to need
 Plasters made of mustard seed;
 An' she thinks she has to see
 That you get your flaxseed tea.
Mothers never change, I guess,
 In their tender thoughtfulness.
 All her gentle long life through
 She is bent on nursing you;
 An' although you may be grown,
 She still claims you for her own,
 An' to her you'll always be
 Just a youngster at her knee.

LIFE

Life is a jest;
 Take the delight of it.
 Laughter is best;
 Sing through the night of it.
 Swiftly the tear
 And the hurt and the ache of it
 Find us down here;
 Life must be what we make of it.
Life is a song;
 Let us dance to the thrill of it.
 Grief's hours are long,
 And cold is the chill of it.
 Joy is man's need;
 Let us smile for the sake of it.
 This be our creed:
 Life must be what we make of it.
Life is a soul;
 The virtue and vice of it.
 Strife for a goal,
 And man's strength is the price of it.
 Your life and mine,
 The bare bread and the cake of it,
 End in this line:
 Life must be what we make of it.

"Life" From a charcoal drawing by W. T. Benda. "Life"
From a charcoal drawing by W. T. Benda.

SUCCESS

This I would claim for my success—not fame nor gold,
 Nor the throng's changing cheers from day to day,
 Not always ease and fortune's glad display,
 Though all of these are pleasant joys to hold;
 But I would like to have my story told
 By smiling friends with whom I've shared the way,
 Who, thinking of me, nod their heads and say:
 "His heart was warm when other hearts were cold.
"None turned to him for aid and found it not,
 His eyes were never blind to man's distress,
 Youth and old age he lived, nor once forgot
 The anguish and the ache of loneliness;
 His name was free from stain or shameful blot
 And in his friendship men found happiness."

THE LONELY OLD FELLOW

The roses are bedded for winter, the tulips are planted for spring;
 The robins and martins have left us; there are only the sparrows to sing.
 The garden seems solemnly silent, awaiting its blankets of snow,
 And I feel like a lonely old fellow with nowhere to turn or to go.
All summer I've hovered about them, all summer they've nodded at me;
 I've wandered and waited among them the first pink of blossom to see;
 I've known them and loved and caressed them, and now all their splendor has fled,
 And the harsh winds of winter all tell me the friends of my garden are dead.
I'm a lonely old fellow, that's certain. All winter with nothing to do
 But sit by the window recalling the days when my skies were all blue;
 But my heart is not given to sorrow and never my lips shall complain,
 For winter shall pass and the sunshine shall give me my roses again.
And so for the friends that have vanished, the friends that they tell me are dead,
 Who have traveled the road to God's Acres and sleep where the willows are spread;
 They have left me a lonely old fellow to sit here and dream by the pane,
 But I know, like the friends of my garden, we shall all meet together again.

SOMEBODY ELSE

Somebody wants a new bonnet to wear;
 Somebody wants a new dress;
 Somebody needs a new bow for her hair,
 And never the wanting grows less.
 Oh, this is the reason I labor each day
 And this is the joy of my tasks:
 That deep in the envelope holding my pay
 Is something that somebody asks.
I could go begging for water and bread
 And travel the highways of ease,
 But somebody wants a roof over his head
 And stockings to cover his knees.
 I could go shirking the duties of life
 And laugh when necessity pleads,
 But rather I stand to the toil and the strife
 To furnish what somebody needs.
Somebody wants what I've strength to supply,
 And somebody's waiting for me
 To come home to-night with money to buy
 Her bread and her cake and her tea.
 And as I am strong so her laughter will ring,
 And as I am true she will smile;
 It's the somebody else of the toiler or king
 That makes all the struggle worth while.

"Somebody Else" From a charcoal drawing by M. L. Bower. "Somebody Else"
From a charcoal drawing by M. L. Bower.

Somebody needs all the courage I own,
 And somebody's trust is in me;
 For never a man who can go it alone,
 Whatever his station may be.
 So I stand to my task and I stand to my care,
 And struggle to come to success,
 For the ribbons to tie up somebody's hair,
 And my somebody's pretty new dress.

EFFORT

He brought me his report card from the teacher and he said
 He wasn't very proud of it and sadly bowed his head.
 He was excellent in reading, but arithmetic, was fair,
 And I noticed there were several "unsatisfactorys" there;
 But one little bit of credit which was given brought me joy—
 He was "excellent in effort," and I fairly hugged the boy.
"Oh, it doesn't make much difference what is written on your card,"
 I told that little fellow, "if you're only trying hard.
 The 'very goods' and 'excellents' are fine, I must agree,
 But the effort you are making means a whole lot more to me;
 And the thing that's most important when this card is put aside
 Is to know, in spite of failure, that to do your best you've tried.
"Just keep excellent in effort—all the rest will come to you.
 There isn't any problem but some day you'll learn to do,
And at last, when you grow older, you will come to understand
 That by hard and patient toiling men have risen to command
 And some day you will discover when a greater goal's at stake
 That better far than brilliance is the effort you will make."

LIVING

The miser thinks he's living when he's hoarding up his gold;
 The soldier calls it living when he's doing something bold;
 The sailor thinks it living to be tossed upon the sea,
 And upon this very subject no two men of us agree.
 But I hold to the opinion, as I walk my way along,
 That living's made of laughter and good-fellowship and song.
I wouldn't call it living to be always seeking gold,
 To bank all the present gladness for the days when I'll be old.
 I wouldn't call it living to spend all my strength for fame,
 And forego the many pleasures which to-day are mine to claim.
 I wouldn't for the splendor of the world set out to roam,
 And forsake my laughing children and the peace I know at home.

"Living" From a painting by Frank X. Leyendecker. "Living"
From a painting by Frank X. Leyendecker.

Oh, the thing that I call living isn't gold or fame at all!
 It's fellowship and sunshine, and it's roses by the wall.
 It's evenings glad with music and a hearth-fire that's ablaze,
And the joys which come to mortals in a thousand different ways.
 It is laughter and contentment and the struggle for a goal;
 It is everything that's needful in the shaping of a soul.

A WARM HOUSE
AND A RUDDY FIRE

A warm house and a ruddy fire,
 To what more can man aspire?
 Eyes that shine with love aglow,
 Is there more for man to know?
Whether home be rich or poor,
 If contentment mark the door
 He who finds it good to live
 Has the best that life can give.
This the end of mortal strife!
 Peace at night to sweeten life,
 Rest when mind and body tire,
 At contentment's ruddy fire.
Rooms where merry songs are sung,
 Happy old and glorious young;
 These, if perfect peace be known,
 Both the rich and poor must own.
A warm house and a ruddy fire,
 These the goals of all desire,
 These the dream of every man
 Since God spoke and life began.

THE ONE IN TEN

Nine passed him by with a hasty look,
 Each bent on his eager way;
 One glance at him was the most they took,
 "Somebody stuck," said they;
 But it never occurred to the nine to heed
 A stranger's plight and a stranger's need.
The tenth man looked at the stranded car,
 And he promptly stopped his own.
 "Let's see if I know what your troubles are,"
 Said he in a cheerful tone;
 "Just stuck in the mire. Here's a cable stout,
 Hitch onto my bus and I'll pull you out."
"A thousand thanks," said the stranger then,
 "For the debt that I owe you;
 I've counted them all and you're one in ten
 Such a kindly deed to do."
 And the tenth man smiled and he answered then,
 "Make sure that you'll be the one in ten."
Are you one of the nine who pass men by
 In this hasty life we live?
 Do you refuse with a downcast eye
 The help which you could give?
 Or are you the one in ten whose creed
 Is always to stop for the man in need?

TO A YOUNG MAN

The great were once as you.
 They whom men magnify to-day
 Once groped and blundered on life's way,
 Were fearful of themselves, and thought
 By magic was men's greatness wrought.
 They feared to try what they could do;
 Yet Fame hath crowned with her success
 The selfsame gifts that you possess.
The great were young as you,
 Dreaming the very dreams you hold,
 Longing yet fearing to be bold,
 Doubting that they themselves possessed
 The strength and skill for every test,
 Uncertain of the truths they knew,
 Not sure that they could stand to fate
 With all the courage of the great.
Then came a day when they
 Their first bold venture made,
 Scorning to cry for aid.
 They dared to stand to fight alone,
 Took up the gauntlet life had thrown,
 Charged full-front to the fray,
 Mastered their fear of self, and then,
 Learned that our great men are but men.

"To A Young Man" From a charcoal drawing by W. T. Benda. "To A Young Man"
From a charcoal drawing by W. T. Benda.

Oh, youth, go forth and do!
 You, too, to fame may rise;
 You can be strong and wise.
 Stand up to life and play the man—
 You can if you'll but think you can;
 The great were once as you.
 You envy them their proud success?
 'Twas won with gifts that you possess.

AFRAID OF HIS DAD

Bill Jones, who goes to school with me,
 Is the saddest boy I ever see.
 He's just so 'fraid he runs away
 When all of us fellows want to play,
 An' says he dassent stay about
 Coz if his father found it out
 He'd wallop him. An' he can't go
 With us to see a picture show
 On Saturdays, an' it's too bad,
 But he's afraid to ask his dad.
When he gets his report card, he
 Is just as scared as scared can be,
 An' once I saw him when he cried
 Becoz although he'd tried an' tried
 His best, the teacher didn't care
 An' only marked his spelling fair,
 An' he told me there'd be a fight
 When his dad saw his card that night.
 It seems to me it's awful bad
 To be so frightened of your dad.
My Dad ain't that way—I can go
 An' tell him everything I know,
 An' ask him things, an' when he comes
 Back home at night he says we're chums;
 An' we go out an' take a walk,
An' all the time he lets me talk.
 I ain't scared to tell him what
 I've done to-day that I should not;
 When I get home I'm always glad
 To stay around an' play with Dad.
Bill Jones, he says, he wishes he
 Could have a father just like me,
 But his dad hasn't time to play,
 An' so he chases him away
 An' scolds him when he makes a noise
 An' licks him if he breaks his toys.
 Sometimes Bill says he's got to lie
 Or else get whipped, an' that is why
 It seems to me it's awful bad
 To be so frightened of your dad.

SERVICE

I have no wealth of gold to give away,
 But I can pledge to worthy causes these:
 I'll give my strength, my days and hours of ease,
 My finest thought and courage when I may,
 And take some deed accomplished for my pay.
 I cannot offer much in silver fees,
 But I can serve when richer persons play,
 And with my presence fill some vacancies.
There are some things beyond the gift of gold,
 A richer treasure's needed now and then;
 Some joys life needs which are not bought and sold—
 The high occasion often calls for men.
 Some for release from service give their pelf,
 But he gives most who freely gives himself.