Chapter 3

When an apple tree is ready for the world to come and eat, There isn't any structure in the land that's "got it beat." There's nothing man has builded with the beauty or the charm That can touch the simple grandeur of the monarch of the farm. There's never any picture from a human being's brush That has ever caught the redness of a single apple's blush.

When an apple tree's in blossom it is glorious to see, But that's just a hint, at springtime, of the better things to be; That is just a fairy promise from the Great Magician's wand Of the wonders and the splendors that are waiting just beyond The distant edge of summer; just a forecast of the treat When the apple tree is ready for the world to come and eat.

Architects of splendid vision long have labored on the earth, And have raised their dreams in marble and we've marveled at their worth; Long the spires of costly churches have looked upward at the sky; Rich in promise and in the beauty, they have cheered the passer-by. But I'm sure there's nothing finer for the eye of man to meet Than an apple tree that's ready for the world to come and eat.

There's the promise of the apples, red and gleaming in the sun, Like the medals worn by mortals as rewards for labors done; And the big arms stretched wide open, with a welcome warm and true In a way that sets you thinking it's intended just for you. There is nothing with a beauty so entrancing, so complete, As an apple tree that's ready for the world to come and eat.

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THE HOME-TOWN

Some folks leave home for money And some leave home for fame, Some seek skies always sunny, And some depart in shame. I care not what the reason Men travel east and west, Or what the month or season-- The home-town is the best.

The home-town is the glad town Where something real abides; 'Tis not the money-mad town That all its spirit hides. Though strangers scoff and flout it And even jeer its name, It has a charm about it No other town can claim.

The home-town skies seem bluer Than skies that stretch away, The home-town friends seem truer And kinder through the day; And whether glum or cheery Light-hearted or depressed, Or struggle-fit or weary, I like the home-town best.

Let him who will, go wander To distant towns to live, Of some things I am fonder Than all they have to give. The gold of distant places Could not repay me quite For those familiar faces That keep the home-town bright.

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TAKE HOME A SMILE

Take home a smile; forget the petty cares, The dull, grim grind of all the day's affairs; The day is done, come be yourself awhile: To-night, to those who wait, take home a smile.

Take home a smile; don't scatter grief and gloom Where laughter and light hearts should always bloom; What though you've traveled many a dusty mile, Footsore and weary, still take home a smile.

Take home a smile--it is not much to do, But much it means to them who wait for you; You can be brave for such a little while; The day of doubt is done--take home a smile.

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COURAGE

Courage isn't a brilliant dash, A daring deed in a moment's flash; It isn't an instantaneous thing Born of despair with a sudden spring It isn't a creature of flickered hope Or the final tug at a slipping rope; But it's something deep in the soul of man That is working always to serve some plan.

Courage isn't the last resort In the work of life or the game of sport; It isn't a thing that a man can call At some future time when he's apt to fall; If he hasn't it now, he will have it not When the strain is great and the pace is hot. For who would strive for a distant goal Must always have courage within his soul.

Courage isn't a dazzling light That flashes and passes away from sight; It's a slow, unwavering, ingrained trait With the patience to work and the strength to wait. It's part of a man when his skies are blue, It's part of him when he has work to do. The brave man never is freed of it. He has it when there is no need of it.

Courage was never designed for show; It isn't a thing that can come and go; It's written in victory and defeat And every trial a man may meet. It's part of his hours, his days and his years, Back of his smiles and behind his tears. Courage is more than a daring deed: It's the breath of life and a strong man's creed.

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GREATNESS

We can be great by helping one another; We can be loved for very simple deeds; Who has the grateful mention of a brother Has really all the honor that he needs.

We can be famous for our works of kindness-- Fame is not born alone of strength or skill; It sometimes comes from deafness and from blindness To petty words and faults, and loving still.

We can be rich in gentle smiles and sunny: A jeweled soul exceeds a royal crown. The richest men sometimes have little money, And Croesus oft's the poorest man in town.

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THE EPICURE

I've sipped a rich man's sparkling wine, His silverware I've handled. I've placed these battered legs of mine 'Neath tables gayly candled. I dine on rare and costly fare Whene'er good fortune lets me, But there's no meal that can compare With those the missus gets me.

I've had your steaks three inches thick With all your Sam Ward trimming, I've had the breast of milk-fed chick In luscious gravy swimming. To dine in swell cafe or club But irritates and frets me; Give me the plain and wholesome grub-- The grub the missus gets me.

Two kiddies smiling at the board, The cook right at the table, The four of us, a hungry horde, To beat that none is able. A big meat pie, with flaky crust! 'Tis then that joy besets me; Oh, I could eat until I "bust," Those meals the missus gets me.

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THE GENTLE GARDENER

I'd like to leave but daffodills to mark my little way, To leave but tulips red and white behind me as I stray; I'd like to pass away from earth and feel I'd left behind But roses and forget-me-nots for all who come to find.

I'd like to sow the barren spots with all the flowers of earth, To leave a path where those who come should find but gentle mirth; And when at last I'm called upon to join the heavenly throng I'd like to feel along my way I'd left no sign of wrong.

And yet the cares are many and the hours of toil are few; There is not time enough on earth for all I'd like to do; But, having lived and having toiled, I'd like the world to find Some little touch of beauty that my soul had left behind.

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THE FINEST AGE

When he was only nine months old, And plump and round and pink of cheek, A joy to tickle and to hold, Before he'd even learned to speak, His gentle mother used to say: "It is too bad that he must grow. If I could only have my way His baby ways we'd always know."

And then the year was turned, and he Began to toddle round the floor And name the things that he could see And soil the dresses that he wore. Then many a night she whispered low: "Our baby now is such a joy I hate to think that he must grow To be a wild and heedless boy."

But on he went and sweeter grew, And then his mother, I recall, Wished she could keep him always two, For that's the finest age of all. She thought the selfsame thing at three, And now that he is four, she sighs To think he cannot always be The youngster with the laughing eyes.

Oh, little boy, my wish is not Always to keep you four years old. Each night I stand beside your cot And think of what the years may hold; And looking down on you I pray That when we've lost our baby small, The mother of our man will say "This is the finest age of all."

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SUCCESS AND FAILURE

I do not think all failure's undeserved, And all success is merely someone's luck; Some men are down because they were unnerved, And some are up because they kept their pluck. Some men are down because they chose to shirk; Some men are high because they did their work.

I do not think that all the poor are good, That riches are the uniform of shame; The beggar might have conquered if he would, And that he begs, the world is not to blame. Misfortune is not all that comes to mar; Most men, themselves, have shaped the things they are.

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CARE-FREE YOUTH

The skies are blue and the sun is out and the grass is green and soft And the old charm's back in the apple tree and it calls a boy aloft; And the same low voice that the old don't hear, but the care-free youngsters do, Is calling them to the fields and streams and the joys that once I knew. And if youth be wild desire for play and care is the mark of men, Beneath the skin that Time has tanned I'm a madcap youngster then.

Far richer than king with his crown of gold and his heavy weight of care Is the sunburned boy with his stone-bruised feet and his tousled shock of hair; For the king can hear but the cry of hate or the sickly sound of praise, And lost to him are the voices sweet that called in his boyhood days. Far better than ruler, with pomp and power and riches, is it to be The urchin gay in his tattered clothes that is climbing the apple tree.

Oh, once I heard all the calls that come to the quick, glad ears of boys, And a certain spot on the river bank told me of its many joys, And certain fields and certain trees were loyal friends to me, And I knew the birds, and I owned a dog, and we both could hear and see. Oh, never from tongues of men have dropped such messages wholly glad As the things that live in the great outdoors once told to a little lad.

And I'm sorry for him who cannot hear what the tall trees have to say, Who is deaf to the call of a running stream and the lanes that lead to play. The boy that shins up the faithful elm or sprawls on a river bank Is more richly blessed with the joys of life than any old man of rank. For youth is the golden time of life, and this battered old heart of mine Beats fast to the march of its old-time joys, when the sun begins to shine.

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MY PAW SAID SO

Foxes can talk if you know how to listen, My Paw said so. Owls have big eyes that sparkle an' glisten, My Paw said so. Bears can turn flip-flaps an' climb ellum trees, An' steal all the honey away from the bees, An' they never mind winter becoz they don't freeze; My Paw said so.

Girls is a-scared of a snake, but boys ain't, My Paw said so. They holler an' run; an' sometimes they faint, My Paw said so. But boys would be 'shamed to be frightened that way When all that the snake wants to do is to play; You've got to believe every word that I say, My Paw said so.

Wolves ain't so bad if you treat 'em all right, My Paw said so. They're as fond of a game as they are of a fight, My Paw said so. An' all of the animals found in the wood Ain't always ferocious. Most times they are good.

The trouble is mostly they're misunderstood, My Paw said so. You can think what you like, but I stick to it when My Paw said so. An' I'll keep right on sayin', again an' again, My Paw said so. Maybe foxes don't talk to such people as you, An' bears never show you the tricks they can do, But I know that the stories I'm tellin' are true, My Paw said so.

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PREPAREDNESS

Right must not live in idleness, Nor dwell in smug content; It must be strong, against the throng Of foes, on evil bent.

Justice must not a weakling be But it must guard its own, And live each day, that none can say Justice is overthrown.

Peace, the sweet glory of the world, Faces a duty, too; Death is her fate, leaves she one gate For war to enter through.

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THE PEACEFUL WARRIORS

Let others sing their songs of war And chant their hymns of splendid death, Let others praise the soldiers' ways And hail the cannon's flaming breath. Let others sing of Glory's fields Where blood for Victory is paid, I choose to sing some simple thing To those who wield not gun or blade-- The peaceful warriors of trade.

Let others choose the deeds of war For symbols of our nation's skill, The blood-red coat, the rattling throat, The regiment that charged the hill, The boy who died to serve the flag, Who heard the order and obeyed, But leave to me the gallantry Of those who labor unafraid-- The peaceful warriors of trade.

Aye, let me sing the splendid deeds Of those who toil to serve mankind, The men who break old ways and make New paths for those who come behind. And face their problems, unafraid, Who think and plan to lift for man The burden that on him is laid-- The splendid warriors of trade.

I sing of battles with disease And victories o'er death and pain, Of ships that fly the summer sky, And glorious deeds of strength and brain. The call for help that rings through space By which a vessel's course is stayed, Thrills me far more than fields of gore, Or heroes decked in golden braid-- I sing the warriors of trade.

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FAILURES

'Tis better to have tried in vain, Sincerely striving for a goal, Than to have lived upon the plain An idle and a timid soul.

'Tis better to have fought and spent Your courage, missing all applause, Than to have lived in smug content And never ventured for a cause.

For he who tries and fails may be The founder of a better day; Though never his the victory, From him shall others learn the way.

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RAISIN PIE

There's a heap of pent-up goodness in the yellow bantam corn, And I sort o' like to linger round a berry patch at morn; Oh, the Lord has set our table with a stock o' things to eat An' there's just enough o' bitter in the blend to cut the sweet, But I run the whole list over, an' it seems somehow that I Find the keenest sort o' pleasure in a chunk o' raisin pie.

There are pies that start the water circulatin' in the mouth; There are pies that wear the flavor of the warm an' sunny south; Some with oriental spices spur the drowsy appetite An' just fill a fellow's being with a thrill o' real delight; But for downright solid goodness that comes drippin' from the sky There is nothing quite the equal of a chunk o' raisin pie.

I'm admittin' tastes are diff'runt, I'm not settin' up myself As the judge an' final critic of the good things on the shelf. I'm sort o' payin' tribute to a simple joy on earth, Sort o' feebly testifyin' to its lasting charm an' worth, An' I'll hold to this conclusion till it comes my time to die, That there's no dessert that's finer than a chunk o' raisin pie.

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LIFE'S TESTS

If never a sorrow came to us, and never a care we knew; If every hope were realized, and every dream came true; If only joy were found on earth, and no one ever sighed, And never a friend proved false to us, and never a loved one died, And never a burden bore us down, soul-sick and weary, too, We'd yearn for tests to prove our worth and tasks for us to do.

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THE READY ARTISTS

The green is in the meadow and the blue is in the sky, And all of Nature's artists have their colors handy by; With a few days bright with sunshine and a few nights free from frost They will start to splash their colors quite regardless of the cost. There's an artist waiting ready at each bleak and dismal spot To paint the flashing tulip or the meek forget-me-not.

May is lurking in the distance and her lap is filled with flowers, And the choicest of her blossoms very shortly will be ours. There is not a lane so dreary or a field so dark with gloom But that soon will be resplendent with its little touch of bloom. There's an artist keen and eager to make beautiful each scene And remove with colors gorgeous every trace of of what has been.

Oh, the world is now in mourning; round about us all are spread The ruins and the symbols of the winter that is dead. But the bleak and barren picture very shortly now will pass, For the halls of life are ready for their velvet rugs of grass; And the painters now are waiting with their magic to replace This dullness with a beauty that no mortal hand can trace.

The green is in the meadow and the blue is in the sky; The chill of death is passing, life will shortly greet the eye. We shall revel soon in colors only Nature's artists make And the humblest plant that's sleeping unto beauty shall awake. For there's not a leaf forgotten, not a twig neglected there, And the tiniest of pansies shall the royal purple wear.

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THE HAPPIEST DAYS

You do not know it, little man, In your summer coat of tan And your legs bereft of hose And your peeling, sunburned nose, With a stone bruise on your toe, Almost limping as you go Running on your way to play Through another summer day, Friend of birds and streams and trees, That your happiest days are these.

Little do you think to-day, As you hurry to your play, That a lot of us, grown old In the chase for fame and gold, Watch you as you pass along Gayly whistling bits of song, And in envy sit and dream Of a long-neglected stream, Where long buried are the joys We possessed when we were boys.

Little chap, you cannot guess All your sum of happiness; Little value do you place On your sunburned freckled face; And if some shrewd fairy came Offering sums of gold and fame For your summer days of play, You would barter them away And believe that you had made There and then a clever trade.

Time was we were boys like you, Bare of foot and sunburned, too, And, like you, we never guessed All the riches we possessed; We'd have traded them back then For the hollow joys of men; We'd have given them all to be Rich and wise and forty-three. For life never teaches boys Just how precious are their joys.

Youth has fled and we are old. Some of us have fame and gold; Some of us are sorely scarred, For the way of age is hard; And we envy, little man, You your splendid coat of tan, Envy you your treasures rare, Hours of joy beyond compare; For we know, by teaching stern, All that some day you must learn.

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THE REAL BAIT

To gentle ways I am inclined; I have no wish to kill. To creatures dumb I would be kind; I like them all, but still Right now I think I'd like to be Beside some rippling brook, And grab a worm I'd brought with me And slip him on a hook.

I'd like to put my hand once more Into a rusty can And turn those squirmy creatures o'er Like nuggets in a pan; And for a big one, once again, With eager eyes I'd look, As did a boy I knew, and then Impale it on a hook.

I've had my share of fishing joy, I've fished with patent bait, With chub and minnow, but the boy Is lord of sport's estate. And no such pleasure comes to man So rare as when he took A worm from a tomato can And slipped it on a hook.

I'd like to gaze with glowing eyes Upon that precious bait, To view each fat worm as a prize To be accounted great. And though I've passed from boyhood's term, And opened age's book, I still would like to put a worm That wriggled on a hook.

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TRUE NOBILITY

Who does his task from day to day And meets whatever comes his way, Believing God has willed it so, Has found real greatness here below.

Who guards his post, no matter where, Believing God must need him there, Although but lowly toil it be, Has risen to nobility.

For great and low there's but one test: 'Tis that each man shall do his best. Who works with all the strength he can Shall never die in debt to man.

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THE SULKERS

The world's too busy now to pause To listen to a whiner's cause; It has no time to stop and pet The sulker in a peevish fret, Who wails he'll neither work nor play Because things haven't gone his way.

The world keeps plodding right along And gives its favors right or wrong To all who have the grit to work Regardless of the fool or shirk. The world says this to every man: "Go out and do the best you can."

The world's too busy to implore The beaten one to try once more; 'Twill help him if he wants to rise, And boost him if he bravely tries, And shows determination grim; But it won't stop to baby him.

The world is occupied with men Who fall but quickly rise again; But those who whine because they're hit And step aside to sulk a bit Are doomed some day to wake and find The world has left them far behind.

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PURPOSE

Not for the sake of the gold, Not for the sake of the fame, Not for the prize would I hold Any ambition or aim: I would be brave and be true Just for the good I can do.

I would be useful on earth, Serving some purpose or cause, Doing some labor of worth, Giving no thought to applause. Thinking less of the gold or the fame Than the joy and the thrill of the game.

Medals their brightness may lose, Fame be forgotten or fade, Any reward we may choose Leaves the account still unpaid. But little real happiness lies In fighting alone for a prize.

Give me the thrill of the task, The joy of the battle and strife, Of being of use, and I'll ask No greater reward from this life. Better than fame or applause Is striving to further a cause.

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MOTHER'S GLASSES

I've told about the times that Ma can't find her pocketbook, And how we have to hustle round for it to help her look, But there's another care we know that often comes our way, I guess it happens easily a dozen times a day. It starts when first the postman through the door a letter passes, And Ma says: "Goodness gracious me! Wherever are my glasses?"

We hunt 'em on the mantelpiece an' by the kitchen sink, Until Ma says: "Now, children, stop, an' give me time to think Just when it was I used 'em last an' just exactly where. Yes, now I know--the dining room. I'm sure you'll find 'em there." We even look behind the clock, we busy boys an' lasses, Until somebody runs across Ma's missing pair of glasses.

We've found 'em in the Bible, an' we've found 'em in the flour, We've found 'em in the sugar bowl, an' once we looked an hour Before we came across 'em in the padding of her chair; An' many a time we've found 'em in the topknot of her hair. It's a search that ruins order an' the home completely wrecks, For there's no place where you may not find poor Ma's elusive specs.

But we're mighty glad, I tell you, that the duty's ours to do, An' we hope to hunt those glasses till our time of life is through; It's a little bit of service that is joyous in its thrill, It's a task that calls us daily an' we hope it always will. Rich or poor, the saddest mortals of all the joyless masses Are the ones who have no mother dear to lose her reading glasses.

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THE PRINCESS PAT'S

_Written when the Canadian regiment known as the "Princess Pat's," left for the front._