Chapter 6
Never arrogant or proud, On he went with manner mild; Never quarrelsome or loud, Just as simple as a child; Honest, patient, brave and true: Thus he lived from day to day, Doing what he found to do In a cheerful sort of way.
Wasn't one to boast of gold Or belittle it with sneers, Didn't change from hot to cold, Kept his friends throughout the years, Sort of man you like to meet Any time or any place. There was always something sweet And refreshing in his face.
Sort of man you'd like to be: Balanced well and truly square; Patient in adversity, Generous when his skies were fair. Never lied to friend or foe, Never rash in word or deed, Quick to come and slow to go In a neighbor's time of need.
Never rose to wealth or fame, Simply lived, and simply died, But the passing of his name Left a sorrow, far and wide. Not for glory he'd attained, Nor for what he had of pelf, Were the friends that he had gained, But for what he was himself.
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WHEN FATHER SHOOK THE STOVE
'Twas not so many years ago, Say, twenty-two or three, When zero weather or below Held many a thrill for me. Then in my icy room I slept A youngster's sweet repose, And always on my form I kept My flannel underclothes. Then I was roused by sudden shock Though still to sleep I strove, I knew that it was seven o'clock When father shook the stove.
I never heard him quit his bed Or his alarm clock ring; I never heard his gentle tread, Or his attempts to sing; The sun that found my window pane On me was wholly lost, Though many a sunbeam tried in vain To penetrate the frost. To human voice I never stirred, But deeper down I dove Beneath the covers, when I heard My father shake the stove.
To-day it all comes back to me And I can hear it still; He seemed to take a special glee In shaking with a will. He flung the noisy dampers back, Then rattled steel on steel, Until the force of his attack The building seemed to feel. Though I'd a youngster's heavy eyes All sleep from them he drove; It seemed to me the dead must rise When father shook the stove.
Now radiators thump and pound And every room is warm, And modern men new ways have found To shield us from the storm. The window panes are seldom glossed The way they used to be; The pictures left by old Jack Frost Our children never see. And now that he has gone to rest In God's great slumber grove, I often think those days were best When father shook the stove.
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HOUSE-HUNTING
Time was when spring returned we went To find another home to rent; We wanted fresher, cleaner walls, And bigger rooms and wider halls, And open plumbing and the dome That made the fashionable home.
But now with spring we want to sell, And seek a finer place to dwell. Our thoughts have turned from dens and domes; We want the latest thing in homes; To life we'll not be reconciled Until we have a bathroom tiled.
A butler's pantry we desire, Although no butler do we hire; Nell's life will be one round of gloom Without a closet for the broom, And mine will dreary be and sour Unless the bathroom has a shower.
For months and months we've sat and dreamed Of paneled walls and ceilings beamed And built-in cases for the books, An attic room to be the cook's. No house will she consent to view Unless it has a sun room, too.
There must be wash bowls here and there To save much climbing of the stair; A sleeping porch we both demand-- This fad has swept throughout the land-- And, Oh, 'twill give her heart a wrench Not to possess a few doors, French.
I want to dig and walk around At least full fifty feet of ground; She wants the latest style in tubs; I want more room for trees and shrubs, And a garage, with light and heat, That can be entered from the street.
The trouble is the things we seek Cannot be bought for ten-a-week. And all the joys for which we sigh Are just too rich for us to buy. We have the taste to cut a dash: The thing we're lacking most is cash.
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AN EASY WORLD
It's an easy world to live in if you choose to make it so; You never need to suffer, save the griefs that all must know; If you'll stay upon the level and will do the best you can You will never lack the friendship of a kindly fellow man.
Life's an easy road to travel if you'll only walk it straight; When the clouds begin to gather and your hopes begin to fade, If you've only toiled in honor you won't have to call for aid.
But if you've bartered friendship and the faith on which it rests For a temporary winning; if you've cheated in the tests, If with promises you've broken, you have chilled the hearts of men; It is vain to look for friendship for it will not come again.
Oh, the world is full of kindness, thronged with men who want to be Of some service to their neighbors and they'll run to you or me When we're needing their assistance if we've lived upon the square, But they'll spurn us in our trouble if we've always been unfair.
It's an easy world to live in; all you really need to do Is the decent thing and proper and then friends will flock to you; But let dishonor trail you and some stormy day you'll find To your heart's supremest sorrow that you've made the world unkind.
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THE STATES
There is no star within the flag That's brighter than its brothers, And when of Michigan I brag, I'm boasting of the others. Just which is which no man can say-- One star for every state Gleams brightly on our flag to-day, And every one is great.
The stars that gem the skies at night May differ in degree, And some are pale and some are bright, But in our flag we see A sky of blue wherein the stars Are equal in design; Each has the radiance of Mars And all are yours and mine.
The glory that is Michigan's Is Colorado's too; The same sky Minnesota spans, The same sun warms it through; And all are one beneath the flag, A common hope is ours; Our country is the mountain crag, The valley and its flowers.
The land we love lies far away As well as close at hand; He has no vision who would say: _This_ state's my native land. Though sweet the charms he knows the best, Deep down within his heart The farthest east, the farthest west Of him must be a part.
There is no star within the flag That's brighter than its brothers; So when of Michigan I brag I'm boasting of the others. We share alike one purpose true; One common end awaits; We must in all we dream or do Remain _United_ States.
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THE OBLIGATION OF FRIENDSHIP
You ought to be fine for the sake of the folks Who think you are fine. If others have faith in you doubly you're bound To stick to the line. It's not only on you that dishonor descends: You can't hurt yourself without hurting your friends.
You ought to be true for the sake of the folks Who believe you are true. You never should stoop to a deed that your friends Think you wouldn't do. If you're false to yourself, be the blemish but small, You have injured your friends; you've been false to them all.
For friendship, my boy, is a bond between men That is founded on truth: It believes in the best of the ones that it loves, Whether old man or youth; And the stern rule it lays down for me and for you Is to be what our friends think we are, through and through.
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UNDER THE SKIN OF MEN
Did you ever sit down and talk with men In a serious sort of a way, On their views of life and ponder then On all that they have to say? If not, you should in some quiet hour; It's a glorious thing to do: For you'll find that back of the pomp and power Most men have a goal in view.
They'll tell you then that their aim is not The clink of the yellow gold; That not in the worldly things they've got Would they have their stories told. They'll say the joys that they treasure most Are their good friends, tried and true, And an honest name for their own to boast And peace when the day is through.
I've talked with men and I think I know What's under the toughened skin. I've seen their eyes grow bright and glow With the fire that burns within. And back of the gold and back of the fame And back of the selfish strife, In most men's breasts you'll find the flame Of the nobler things of life.
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THE FINER THOUGHT
How fine it is at night to say: "I have not wronged a soul to-day. I have not by a word or deed, In any breast sowed anger's seed, Or caused a fellow being pain; Nor is there on my crest a stain That shame has left. In honor's way, With head erect, I've lived this day."
When night slips down and day departs And rest returns to weary hearts, How fine it is to close the book Of records for the day, and look Once more along the traveled mile And find that all has been worth while; To say: "In honor I have toiled; My plume is spotless and unsoiled."
Yet cold and stern a man may be Retaining his integrity; And he may pass from day to day A spirit dead, in living clay, Observing strictly morals, laws, Yet serving but a selfish cause; So it is not enough to say: "I have not stooped to shame to-day!"
It is a finer, nobler thought When day is done and night has brought The contemplative hours and sweet, And rest to weary hearts and feet, If man can stand in truth and say: "I have been useful here to-day. Back there is one I chanced to see With hope newborn because of me.
"This day in honor I have toiled; My shining crest is still unsoiled; But on the mile I leave behind Is one who says that I was kind; And someone hums a cheerful song Because I chanced to come along." Sweet rest at night that man shall own Who has not lived his day alone.
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STUCK
I'm up against it day by day, My ignorance is distressing; The things I don't know on the way I'm busily confessing. Time was I used to think I knew Some useful bits of knowledge And could be sure of one or two Real facts I'd gleaned in college. But I'm unfitted for the task Of answering things my boy can ask.
Now, who can answer queries queer That four-year-olds can think up? And tell in simple phrase and clear Why fishes do not drink up The water in the streams and lakes, Or where the wind is going, And tell exactly how God makes The roses that are growing? I'm sure I cannot satisfy Each little when, and how, and why.
Had I the wisdom of a sage Possessed of all the learning That can be gleaned from printed page From bookworm's closest turning, That eager knowledge-seeking lad That questions me so gayly Could still go round and boast he had With queries floored me daily. He'll stick, I'll bet, in less than five Brief minutes any man alive.
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ETERNAL FRIENDSHIP
Who once has had a friend has found The link 'twixt mortal and divine; Though now he sleeps in hallowed ground, He lives in memory's sacred shrine; And there he freely moves about, A spirit that has quit the clay, And in the times of stress and doubt Sustains his friend throughout the day.
No friend we love can ever die; The outward form but disappears; I know that all my friends are nigh Whenever I am moved to tears. And when my strength and hope are gone, The friends, no more, that once I knew, Return to cheer and urge me on Just as they always used to do.
They whisper to me in the dark Kind words of counsel and of cheer; When hope has flickered to a spark I feel their gentle spirits near. And Oh! because of them I strive With all the strength that I can call To keep their friendship still alive And to be worthy of them all.
Death does not end our friendships true; We all are debtors to the dead; There, wait on everything we do The splendid souls who've gone ahead. To them I hold that we are bound By double pledges to be fine. Who once has had a friend has found The link 'twixt mortal and divine.
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FAITH
I believe in the world and its bigness and splendor: That most of the hearts beating round us are tender; That days are but footsteps and years are but miles That lead us to beauty and singing and smiles: That roses that blossom and toilers that plod Are filled with the glorious spirit of God.
I believe in the purpose of everything living: That taking is but the forerunner of giving; That strangers are friends that we some day may meet; And not all the bitter can equal the sweet; That creeds are but colors, and no man has said That God loves the yellow rose more than the red.
I believe in the path that to-day I am treading, That I shall come safe through the dangers I'm dreading; That even the scoffer shall turn from his ways And some day be won back to trust and to praise; That the leaf on the tree and the thing we call Man Are sharing alike in His infinite plan.
I believe that all things that are living and breathing Some richness of beauty to earth are bequeathing; That all that goes out of this world leaves behind Some duty accomplished for mortals to find; That the humblest of creatures our praise is deserving, For it, with the wisest, the Master is serving.
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I
Nobody hates me more than I; No enemy have I to-day That I so bravely must defy; There are no foes along my way, However bitter they may be, So powerful to injure me As I am, nor as quick to spoil The beauty of my bit of toil.
Nobody harms me more than I; No one is meaner unto me; Of all the foes that pass me by I am the worst one that I see. I am the dangerous man to fear; I am the cause of sorrow here; Of all men 'gainst my hopes inclined I am myself the most unkind.
I do more harmful things to me Than all the men who seem to hate; I am the fellow that should be More dreaded than the works of fate. I am the one that I must fight With all my will and all my might; My foes are better friends to me Than I have ever proved to be.
I am the careless foe and mean; I am the selfish rival too; My enmity to me is seen In almost everything I do. More courage it requires to beat Myself, than all the foes I meet; I am more traitorous to me Than other men could ever be.
In every struggle I have lost I am the one that was to blame; My weaknesses cannot be glossed By glib excuses. I was lame. I that would dare for fame or pelf Am far less daring with myself. I care not who my foes may be, I am my own worst enemy.
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THE THINGS THAT HAVEN'T BEEN DONE BEFORE
The things that haven't been done before, Those are the things to try; Columbus dreamed of an unknown shore At the rim of the far-flung sky, And his heart was bold and his faith was strong As he ventured in dangers new, And he paid no heed to the jeering throng Or the fears of the doubting crew.
The many will follow the beaten track With guideposts on the way, They live and have lived for ages back With a chart for every day. Someone has told them it's safe to go On the road he has traveled o'er. And all that they ever strive to know Are the things that were known before.
A few strike out, without map or chart, Where never a man has been, From the beaten paths they draw apart To see what no man has seen. There are deeds they hunger alone to do; Though battered and bruised and sore, They blaze the path for the many, who Do nothing not done before.
The things that haven't been done before, Are the tasks worth while to-day; Are you one of the flock that follows, or Are you one that shall lead the way? Are you one of the timid souls that quail At the jeers of a doubting crew, Or dare you, whether you win or fail, Strike out for a goal that's new?
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REVENGE
If I had hatred in my heart toward my fellow man, If I were pressed to do him ill, to conjure up a plan To wound him sorely and to rob his days of all their joy, I'd wish his wife would go away and take their little boy.
I'd waste no time on curses vague, nor try to take his gold, Nor seek to shatter any plan that he might dearly hold. A crueler revenge than that for him I would bespeak: I'd wish his wife and little one might leave him for a week.
I'd wish him all the loneliness that comes with loss of those Who fill his life with laughter and contentment and repose. I'd wish him empty rooms at night and mocking stairs to squeak That neither wife nor little boy will greet him for a week.
If I despised my fellow man, I'd make my hatred known By wishing him a week or two of living all alone; I'd let him know the torture that is mine to bear to-day, For Buddy and his mother now are miles and miles away.
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PROMOTION
Promotion comes to him who sticks Unto his work and never kicks, Who watches neither clock nor sun To tell him when his task is done; Who toils not by a stated chart, Defining to a jot his part, But gladly does a little more Than he's remunerated for. The man, in factory or shop, Who rises quickly to the top, Is he who gives what can't be bought: Intelligent and careful thought.
No one can say just when begins The service that promotion wins, Or when it ends; 'tis not defined By certain hours or any kind Of system that has been devised; Merit cannot be systemized. It is at work when it's at play; It serves each minute of the day; 'Tis always at its post, to see New ways of help and use to be. Merit from duty never slinks, Its cardinal virtue is--it thinks!
Promotion comes to him who tries Not solely for a selfish prize, But day by day and year by year Holds his employer's interests dear. Who measures not by what he earns The sum of labor he returns, Nor counts his day of toiling through Till he's done all that he can do. His strength is not of muscle bred, But of the heart and of the head. The man who would the top attain Must demonstrate he has a brain.
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EXPECTATION
Most folks, as I've noticed, in pleasure an' strife, Are always expecting too much out of life. They wail an' they fret Just because they don't get The best o' the sunshine, the fairest o' flowers, The finest o' features, the strongest o' powers; They whine an' they whimper an' curse an' condemn, Coz life isn't always being' partial to them.
Notwithstandin' the pain an' the sufferin' they see, They cling to the notion that they should go free: That they shouldn't share In life's trouble an' care But should always be happy an' never perplexed, An' never discouraged or beaten or vexed. When life treats 'em roughly an' jolts 'em with care, They seem to imagine it's bein' unfair.
It's a curious notion folks hold in their pride, That their souls should never be tested or tried; That others must mourn An' be sick an' forlorn An' stand by the biers of their loved ones an' weep, But life from such sorrows their bosoms must keep. Oh, they mustn't know what it means to be sad, Or they'll wail that the treatment they're gettin' is bad.
Now life as I view it means pleasure an' pain, An' laughter an' weepin' an' sunshine an' rain, An' takin' an' givin'; An' all who are livin' Must face it an' bear it the best that they can Believin' great Wisdom is workin' the plan. An' no one should ever complain it's unfair Because at the moment he's tastin' despair.
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HARD WORK
One day, in ages dark and dim, A toiler, weary, worn and faint, Who found his task too much for him, Gave voice unto a sad complaint. And seeking emphasis to give Unto his trials (day-starred!) Coupled to "work" this adjective, This little word of terror: _Hard_.
And from that day to this has work Its frightening description worn; 'Tis spoken daily by the shirk, The first cloud on the sky at morn. To-day when there are tasks to do, Save that we keep ourselves on guard With fearful doubtings them we view, And think and speak of them as hard.
That little but ill-chosen word Has wrought great havoc with men's souls, Has chilled the hearts ambition stirred And held the pass to splendid goals. Great dreams have faded and been lost, Fine youth by it been sadly marred As plants beneath a withering frost, Because men thought and whispered: "Hard."
Let's think of work in terms of hope And speak of it with words of praise, And tell the joy it is to grope Along the new, untrodden ways! Let's break this habit of despair And cheerfully our task regard; The road to happiness lies there: Why think or speak of it as hard?
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GRATITUDE
Be grateful for the kindly friends that walk along your way; Be grateful for the skies of blue that smile from day to day; Be grateful for the health you own, the work you find to do, For round about you there are men less fortunate than you.
Be grateful for the growing trees, the roses soon to bloom, The tenderness of kindly hearts that shared your days of gloom; Be grateful for the morning dew, the grass beneath your feet, The soft caresses of your babes and all their laughter sweet.
Acquire the grateful habit, learn to see how blest you are, How much there is to gladden life, how little life to mar! And what if rain shall fall to-day and you with grief are sad; Be grateful that you can recall the joys that you have had.
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A REAL MAN
Men are of two kinds, and he Was of the kind I'd like to be. Some preach their virtues, and a few Express their lives by what they do. That sort was he. No flowery phrase Or glibly spoken words of praise Won friends for him. He wasn't cheap Or shallow, but his course ran deep, And it was pure. You know the kind. Not many in a life you find Whose deeds outrun their words so far That more than what they seem they are.
There are two kinds of lies as well: The kind you live, the ones you tell. Back through his years from age to youth He never acted one untruth. Out in the open light he fought And didn't care what others thought Nor what they said about his fight If he believed that he was right. The only deeds he ever hid Were acts of kindness that he did.
What speech he had was plain and blunt. His was an unattractive front. Yet children loved him; babe and boy Played with the strength he could employ, Without one fear, and they are fleet To sense injustice and deceit. No back door gossip linked his name With any shady tale of shame. He did not have to compromise With evil-doers, shrewd and wise, And let them ply their vicious trade Because of some past escapade.
Men are of two kinds, and he Was of the kind I'd like to be. No door at which he ever knocked Against his manly form was locked. If ever man on earth was free And independent, it was he. No broken pledge lost him respect, He met all men with head erect, And when he passed I think there went A soul to yonder firmament So white, so splendid and so fine It came almost to God's design.
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THE NEIGHBORLY MAN