Chapter 2
Little Master Mischievous, in the cookie jar, Who has ever told you where the cookies are? Now your sticky fingers smear the curtains white; You have finger-printed everything in sight. There's no use in scolding; when you smile that way You can rob of terror every word we say.
Little Master Mischievous, that's the name for you; There's no better title that describes the things you do: Prying into corners, peering into nooks, Tugging table covers, tearing costly books. Little Master Mischievous, have your roguish way; Time, I know, will stop you, soon enough some day.
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OPPORTUNITY
So long as men shall be on earth There will be tasks for them to do, Some way for them to show their worth; Each day shall bring its problems new.
And men shall dream of mightier deeds Than ever have been done before: There always shall be human needs For men to work and struggle for.
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THE SORROW TUGS
There's a lot of joy in the smiling world, there's plenty of morning sun, And laughter and songs and dances, too, whenever the day's work's done; Full many an hour is a shining one, when viewed by itself apart, But the golden threads in the warp of life are the sorrow tugs at your heart.
Oh, the fun is froth and it blows away, and many a joy's forgot, And the pleasures come and the pleasures go, and memory holds them not; But treasured ever you keep the pain that causes your tears to start, For the sweetest hours are the ones that bring the sorrow tugs at your heart.
The lump in your throat and the little sigh when your baby trudged away The very first time to the big red school--how long will their memory stay? The fever days and the long black nights you watched as she troubled, slept, And the joy you felt when she smiled once more--how long will that all be kept?
The glad hours live in a feeble way, but the sad ones never die. His first long trousers caused a pang and you saw them with a sigh. And the big still house when the boy and girl, unto youth and beauty grown, To college went; will you e'er forget that first grim hour alone?
It seems as you look back over things, that all that you treasure dear Is somehow blent in a wondrous way with a heart pang and a tear. Though many a day is a joyous one when viewed by itself apart, The golden threads in the warp of life are the sorrow tugs at your heart.
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ONLY A DAD
Only a dad with a tired face, Coming home from the daily race, Bringing little of gold or fame To show how well he has played the game; But glad in his heart that his own rejoice To see him come and to hear his voice.
Only a dad with a brood of four, One of ten million men or more Plodding along in the daily strife, Bearing the whips and the scorns of life, With never a whimper of pain or hate, For the sake of those who at home await.
Only a dad, neither rich nor proud, Merely one of the surging crowd, Toiling, striving from day to day, Facing whatever may come his way, Silent whenever the harsh condemn, And bearing it all for the love of them.
Only a dad but he gives his all, To smooth the way for his children small, Doing with courage stern and grim The deeds that his father did for him. This is the line that for him I pen: Only a dad, but the best of men.
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HARD KNOCKS
I'm not the man to say that failure's sweet, Nor tell a chap to laugh when things go wrong; I know it hurts to have to take defeat An' no one likes to lose before a throng; It isn't very pleasant not to win When you have done the very best you could; But if you're down, get up an' buckle in-- A lickin' often does a fellow good.
I've seen some chaps who never knew their power Until somebody knocked 'em to the floor; I've known men who discovered in an hour A courage they had never shown before. I've seen 'em rise from failure to the top By doin' things they hadn't understood Before the day disaster made 'em drop-- A lickin' often does a fellow good.
Success is not the teacher, wise an' true, That gruff old failure is, remember that; She's much too apt to make a fool of you, Which isn't true of blows that knock you flat. Hard knocks are painful things an' hard to bear, An' most of us would dodge 'em if we could; There's something mighty broadening in care-- A lickin' often does a fellow good.
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SPRING IN THE TRENCHES
It's coming time for planting in that little patch of ground, Where the lad and I made merry as he followed me around; Now the sun is getting higher, and the skies above are blue, And I'm hungry for the garden, and I wish the war was through. But it's tramp, tramp, tramp, And it's never look behind, And when you see a stranger's kids Pretend that you are blind.
The spring is coming back again, the birds begin to mate; The skies are full of kindness, but the world is full of hate. And it's I that should be bending now in peace above the soil With laughing eyes and little hands about to bless the toil. But it's fight, fight, fight, And it's charge at double-quick; A soldier thinking thoughts of home Is one more soldier sick.
Last year I brought the bulbs to bloom and saw the roses bud; This year I'm ankle deep in mire, and most of it is blood. Last year the mother in the door was glad as she could be; To-day her heart is full of pain, and mine is hurting me. But it's shoot, shoot, shoot, And when the bullets hiss, Don't let the tears fill up your eyes, For weeping soldiers miss.
Oh, who will tend the roses now and who will sow the seeds? And who will do the heavy work the little garden needs? And who will tell the lad of mine the things he wants to know, And take his hand and lead him round the paths we used to go? For it's charge, charge, charge, And it's face the foe once more; Forget the things you love the most And keep your mind on gore.
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FATHER
Used to wonder just why father Never had much time for play, Used to wonder why he'd rather Work each minute of the day. Used to wonder why he never Loafed along the road an' shirked; Can't recall a time whenever Father played while others worked.
Father didn't dress in fashion, Sort of hated clothing new; Style with him was not a passion; He had other things in view. Boys are blind to much that's going On about 'em day by day, And I had no way of knowing What became of father's pay.
All I knew was when I needed Shoes I got 'em on the spot; Everything for which I pleaded, Somehow, father always got. Wondered, season after season, Why he never took a rest, And that _I_ might be the reason Then I never even guessed.
Father set a store on knowledge; If he'd lived to have his way He'd have sent me off to college And the bills been glad to pay. That, I know, was his ambition: Now and then he used to say He'd have done his earthly mission On my graduation day.
Saw his cheeks were getting paler, Didn't understand just why; Saw his body growing frailer, Then at last I saw him die. Rest had come! His tasks were ended, Calm was written on his brow; Father's life was big and splendid, And I understand it now.
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LADDIES
Show me the boy who never threw A stone at someone's cat, Or never hurled a snowball swift At someone's high silk hat-- Who never ran away from school, To seek the swimming hole, Or slyly from a neighbor's yard Green apples never stole--
Show me the boy who never broke A pane of window glass, Who never disobeyed the sign That says: "Keep off the grass." Who never did a thousand things, That grieve us sore to tell, And I'll show you a little boy Who must be far from well.
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THE LIVING BEAUTIES
I never knew, until they went, How much their laughter really meant I never knew how much the place Depended on each little face; How barren home could be and drear Without its living beauties here.
I never knew that chairs and books Could wear such sad and solemn looks! That rooms and halls could be at night So still and drained of all delight. This home is now but brick and board Where bits of furniture are stored.
I used to think I loved each shelf And room for what it was itself. And once I thought each picture fine Because I proudly called it mine. But now I know they mean no more Than art works hanging in a store.
Until they went away to roam I never knew what made it home. But I have learned that all is base, However wonderful the place And decked with costly treasures, rare, Unless the living joys are there.
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AT BREAKFAST TIME
My Pa he eats his breakfast in a funny sort of way: We hardly ever see him at the first meal of the day. Ma puts his food before him and he settles in his place An' then he props the paper up and we can't see his face; We hear him blow his coffee and we hear him chew his toast, But it's for the morning paper that he seems to care the most.
Ma says that little children mighty grateful ought to be To the folks that fixed the evening as the proper time for tea. She says if meals were only served to people once a day, An' that was in the morning just before Pa goes away, We'd never know how father looked when he was in his place, Coz he'd always have the morning paper stuck before his face.
He drinks his coffee steamin' hot, an' passes Ma his cup To have it filled a second time, an' never once looks up. He never has a word to say, but just sits there an' reads, An' when she sees his hand stuck out Ma gives him what he needs. She guesses what it is he wants, coz it's no use to ask: Pa's got to read his paper an' sometimes that's quite a task.
One morning we had breakfast an' his features we could see, But his face was long an' solemn an' he didn't speak to me, An' we couldn't get him laughin' an' we couldn't make him smile, An' he said the toast was soggy an' the coffee simply vile. Then Ma said: "What's the matter? Why are you so cross an' glum?" An' Pa 'most took her head off coz the paper didn't come.
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CAN'T
_Can't_ is the worst word that's written or spoken; Doing more harm here than slander and lies; On it is many a strong spirit broken, And with it many a good purpose dies. It springs from the lips of the thoughtless each morning And robs us of courage we need through the day: It rings in our ears like a timely-sent warning And laughs when we falter and fall by the way.
_Can't_ is the father of feeble endeavor, The parent of terror and half-hearted work; It weakens the efforts of artisans clever, And makes of the toiler an indolent shirk. It poisons the soul of the man with a vision, It stifles in infancy many a plan; It greets honest toiling with open derision And mocks at the hopes and the dreams of a man.
_Can't_ is a word none should speak without blushing; To utter it should be a symbol of shame; Ambition and courage it daily is crushing; It blights a man's purpose and shortens his aim. Despise it with all of your hatred of error; Refuse it the lodgment it seeks in your brain; Arm against it as a creature of terror, And all that you dream of you some day shall gain.
_Can't_ is the word that is foe to ambition, An enemy ambushed to shatter your will; Its prey is forever the man with a mission And bows but to courage and patience and skill. Hate it, with hatred that's deep and undying, For once it is welcomed 'twill break any man; Whatever the goal you are seeking, keep trying And answer this demon by saying: "I _can_."
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JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
_Written July 22, 1916, when the world lost its "Poet of Childhood."_
There must be great rejoicin' on the Golden Shore to-day, An' the big an' little angels must be feelin' mighty gay: Could we look beyond the curtain now I fancy we should see Old Aunt Mary waitin', smilin', for the coming that's to be, An' Little Orphant Annie an' the whole excited pack Dancin' up an' down an' shoutin': "Mr. Riley's comin' back!"
There's a heap o' real sadness in this good old world to-day; There are lumpy throats this morning now that Riley's gone away; There's a voice now stilled forever that in sweetness only spoke An' whispered words of courage with a faith that never broke. There is much of joy and laughter that we mortals here will lack, But the angels must be happy now that Riley's comin' back.
The world was gettin' dreary, there was too much sigh an' frown In this vale o' mortal strivin', so God sent Jim Riley down, An' He said: "Go there an' cheer 'em in your good old-fashioned way, With your songs of tender sweetness, but don't make your plans to stay, Coz you're needed up in Heaven. I am lendin' you to men Just to help 'em with your music, but I'll want you back again."
An' Riley came, an' mortals heard the music of his voice An' they caught his songs o' beauty an' they started to rejoice; An' they leaned on him in sorrow, an' they shared with him their joys, An' they walked with him the pathways that they knew when they were boys. But the heavenly angels missed him, missed his tender, gentle knack Of makin' people happy, an' they wanted Riley back.
There must be great rejoicin' on the streets of Heaven to-day An' all the angel children must be troopin' down the way, Singin' heavenly songs of welcome an' preparin' now to greet The soul that God had tinctured with an ever-lasting sweet; The world is robed in sadness an' is draped in sombre black; But joy must reign in Heaven now that Riley's comin' back.
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RESULTS AND ROSES
The man who wants a garden fair, Or small or very big, With flowers growing here and there, Must bend his back and dig.
The things are mighty few on earth That wishes can attain. Whate'er we want of any worth We've got to work to gain.
It matters not what goal you seek Its secret here reposes: You've got to dig from week to week To get Results or Roses.
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THE OTHER FELLOW
Are you fond of your wife and your children fair? So is the other fellow. Do you crave pleasures for them to share? So does the other fellow. Does your heart rejoice when your own are glad? And are you troubled when they are sad? Well, it's that way, too, in this life, my lad, That way with the other fellow.
Do you want the best for your own to know? So does the other fellow. Do you stoop to kiss them before you go? So does the other fellow. When your baby lies on a fevered bed, Does your heart run cold with a silent dread? Well, it's that way, too, where all mortals tread-- That way with the other fellow.
Does it hurt when they want what you cannot buy? It does with the other fellow. Do you for their comfort yourself deny? So does the other fellow. Would you wail aloud if your babe should die For the lack of care you could not supply? Well, it's that way, too, as he travels by, That way with the other fellow.
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OUR DUTY TO OUR FLAG
Less hate and greed Is what we need And more of service true; More men to love The flag above And keep it first in view.
Less boast and brag About the flag, More faith in what it means; More heads erect, More self-respect, Less talk of war machines.
The time to fight To keep it bright Is not along the way, Nor 'cross the foam, But here at home Within ourselves--to-day.
'Tis we must love That flag above With all our might and main; For from our hands, Not distant lands, Shall come dishonor's stain.
If that flag be Dishonored, we Have done it, not the foe; If it shall fall We first of all Shall be to strike a blow.
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THE HUNTER
Cheek that is tanned to the wind of the north. Body that jests at the bite of the cold, Limbs that are eager and strong to go forth Into the wilds and the ways of the bold; Red blood that pulses and throbs in the veins, Ears that love silences better than noise; Strength of the forest and health of the plains; These the rewards that the hunter enjoys.
Forests were ever the cradles of men; Manhood is born of a kinship with trees. Whence shall come brave hearts and stout muscles, when Woods have made way for our cities of ease? Oh, do you wonder that stalwarts return Yearly to hark to the whispering oaks? 'Tis for the brave days of old that they yearn: These are the splendors the hunter invokes.
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IT'S SEPTEMBER
It's September, and the orchards are afire with red and gold, And the nights with dew are heavy, and the morning's sharp with cold; Now the garden's at its gayest with the salvia blazing red And the good old-fashioned asters laughing at us from their bed; Once again in shoes and stockings are the children's little feet, And the dog now does his snoozing on the bright side of the street.
It's September, and the cornstalks are as high as they will go, And the red cheeks of the apples everywhere begin to show; Now the supper's scarcely over ere the darkness settles down And the moon looms big and yellow at the edges of the town; Oh, it's good to see the children, when their little prayers are said, Duck beneath the patchwork covers when they tumble into bed.
It's September, and a calmness and a sweetness seem to fall Over everything that's living, just as though it hears the call Of Old Winter, trudging slowly, with his pack of ice and snow, In the distance over yonder, and it somehow seems as though Every tiny little blossom wants to look its very best When the frost shall bite its petals and it droops away to rest.
It's September! It's the fullness and the ripeness of the year; All the work of earth is finished, or the final tasks are near, But there is no doleful wailing; every living thing that grows, For the end that is approaching wears the finest garb it knows. And I pray that I may proudly hold my head up high and smile When I come to my September in the golden afterwhile.
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HOW DO YOU TACKLE YOUR WORK?
How do you tackle your work each day? Are you scared of the job you find? Do you grapple the task that comes your way With a confident, easy mind? Do you stand right up to the work ahead Or fearfully pause to view it? Do you start to toil with a sense of dread Or feel that you're going to do it?
You can do as much as you think you can, But you'll never accomplish more; If you're afraid of yourself, young man, There's little for you in store. For failure comes from the inside first, It's there if we only knew it, And you can win, though you face the worst, If you feel that you're going to do it.
Success! It's found in the soul of you, And not in the realm of luck! The world will furnish the work to do, But you must provide the pluck. You can do whatever you think you can, It's all in the way you view it. It's all in the start that you make, young man: You must feel that you're going to do it.
How do you tackle your work each day? With confidence clear, or dread? What to yourself do you stop and say When a new task lies ahead? What is the thought that is in your mind? Is fear ever running through it? If so, just tackle the next you find By thinking you're going to do it.
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LIFE
Life is a gift to be used every day, Not to be smothered and hidden away; It isn't a thing to be stored in the chest Where you gather your keepsakes and treasure your best; It isn't a joy to be sipped now and then And promptly put back in a dark place again.
Life is a gift that the humblest may boast of And one that the humblest may well make the most of. Get out and live it each hour of the day, Wear it and use it as much as you may; Don't keep it in niches and corners and grooves, You'll find that in service its beauty improves.
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STORY TELLING
Most every night when they're in bed, And both their little prayers have said, They shout for me to come upstairs And tell them tales of gypsies bold, And eagles with the claws that hold A baby's weight, and fairy sprites That roam the woods on starry nights.
And I must illustrate these tales, Must imitate the northern gales That toss the Indian's canoe, And show the way he paddles, too. If in the story comes a bear, I have to pause and sniff the air And show the way he climbs the trees To steal the honey from the bees.
And then I buzz like angry bees And sting him on his nose and knees And howl in pain, till mother cries: "That pair will never shut their eyes, While all that noise up there you make; You're simply keeping them awake." And then they whisper: "Just one more," And once again I'm forced to roar.
New stories every night they ask. And that is not an easy task; I have to be so many things, The frog that croaks, the lark that sings, The cunning fox, the frightened hen; But just last night they stumped me, when They wanted me to twist and squirm And imitate an angle worm.
At last they tumble off to sleep, And softly from their room I creep And brush and comb the shock of hair I tossed about to be a bear. Then mother says: "Well, I should say You're just as much a child as they." But you can bet I'll not resign That story telling job of mine.
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CANNING TIME
There's a wondrous smell of spices In the kitchen, Most bewitchin'; There are fruits cut into slices That just set the palate itchin'; There's the sound of spoon on platter And the rattle and the clatter; And a bunch of kids are hastin' To the splendid joy of tastin': It's the fragrant time of year When fruit-cannin' days are here.
There's a good wife gayly smilin' And perspirin' Some, and tirin'; And while jar on jar she's pilin' And the necks o' them she's wirin' I'm a-sittin' here an' dreamin' Of the kettles that are steamin', And the cares that have been troublin' All have vanished in the bubblin'. I am happy that I'm here At the cannin' time of year.
Lord, I'm sorry for the feller That is missin' All the hissin' Of the juices, red and yeller,
And can never sit and listen To the rattle and the clatter Of the sound of spoon on platter. I am sorry for the single, For they miss the thrill and tingle Of the splendid time of year When the cannin' days are here.
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THE DULL ROAD
It's the dull road that leads to the gay road; The practice that leads to success; The work road that leads to the play road; It is trouble that breeds happiness.
It's the hard work and merciless grinding That purchases glory and fame; It's repeatedly doing, nor minding The drudgery drear of the game.
It's the passing up glamor or pleasure For the sake of the skill we may gain, And in giving up comfort or leisure For the joy that we hope to attain.
It's the hard road of trying and learning, Of toiling, uncheered and alone, That wins us the prizes worth earning, And leads us to goals we would own.
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THE APPLE TREE