Chapter 1

Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Diane Monico, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

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_

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.

"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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

THE BOY'S IDEAL

I must be fit for a child to play with, Fit for a youngster to walk away with; Fit for his trust and fit to be Ready to take him upon my knee; Whether I win or I lose my fight, I must be fit for my boy at night.

I must be fit for a child to come to, Speech there is that I must be dumb to; I must be fit for his eyes to see, He must find nothing of shame in me; Whatever I make of myself, I must Square to my boy's unfaltering trust.

I must be fit for a child to follow, Scorning the places where loose men wallow; Knowing how much he shall learn from me, I must be fair as I'd have him be; I must come home to him, day by day, Clean as the morning I went away.

I must be fit for a child's glad greeting, His are eyes that there is no cheating; He must behold me in every test, Not at my worst, but my very best; He must be proud when my life is done To have men know that he is my son.

JUST HALF OF THAT, PLEASE

Grandmother says when I pass her the cake: "Just half of that, please." If I serve her the tenderest portion of steak: "Just half of that, please." And be the dessert a rice pudding or pie, As I pass Grandma's share she is sure to reply, With the trace of a twinkle to light up her eye: "Just half of that, please."

I've cut down her portions but still she tells me: "Just half of that, please." Though scarcely a mouthful of food she can see: "Just half of that, please." If I pass her the chocolates she breaks one in two, There's nothing so small but a smaller will do, And she says, perhaps fearing she's taking from you: "Just half of that, please."

When at last Grandma leaves us the angels will hear: "Just half of that, please." When with joys for the gentle and brave they appear: "Just half of that, please." And for fear they may think she is selfish up there, Or is taking what may be a young angel's share, She will say with the loveliest smile she can wear: "Just half of that, please."

THE COMMON TOUCH

I would not be too wise--so very wise That I must sneer at simple songs and creeds, And let the glare of wisdom blind my eyes To humble people and their humble needs.

I would not care to climb so high that I Could never hear the children at their play, Could only see the people passing by, Yet never hear the cheering words they say.

I would not know too much--too much to smile At trivial errors of the heart and hand, Nor be too proud to play the friend the while, And cease to help and know and understand.

I would not care to sit upon a throne, Or build my house upon a mountain-top. Where I must dwell in glory all alone And never friend come in or poor man stop.

God grant that I may live upon this earth And face the tasks which every morning brings, And never lose the glory and the worth Of humble service and the simple things.

MARJORIE

The house is as it was when she was here; There's nothing changed at all about the place; The books she loved to read are waiting near As if to-morrow they would see her face; Her room remains the way it used to be, Here are the puzzles that she pondered on: Yet since the angels called for Marjorie The joyous spirit of the home has gone.

All things grew lovely underneath her touch, The room was bright because it knew her smile; From her the tiniest trinket gathered much, The cheapest toy became a thing worth while; Yet here are her possessions as they were, No longer joys to set the eyes aglow; To-day, as we, they seem to mourn for her, And share the sadness that is ours to know.

Half sobbing now, we put her games away, Because, dumb things, they cannot understand Why never more shall Marjorie come to play, And we have faith in God at our command. These toys we smiled at once, now start our tears, They seem to wonder why they lie so still, They call her name, and will throughout the years-- God, strengthen us to bow unto Thy will.

THE NEWSPAPER MAN

Bit of a priest and a bit of sailor, Bit of a doctor and bit of a tailor, Bit of a lawyer, and bit of detective, Bit of a judge, for his work is corrective; Cheering the living and soothing the dying, Risking all things, even dare-devil flying; True to his paper and true to his clan-- Just look him over, the newspaper man.

Sleep! There are times that he'll do with a little, Work till his nerves and his temper are brittle; Fire cannot daunt him, nor long hours disturb him, Gold cannot buy him and threats cannot curb him; Highbrow or lowbrow, your own speech he'll hand you, Talk as you will to him, he'll understand you; He'll go wherever another man can-- That is the way of the newspaper man.

Surgeon, if urgent the need be, you'll find him, Ready to help, nor will dizziness blind him; He'll give the ether and never once falter, Say the last rites like a priest at the altar; Gentle and kind with the weak and the weary, Which is proved now and then when his keen eye grows teary; Facing all things in life's curious plan-- That is the way of the newspaper man.

One night a week may he rest from his labor, One night at home to be father and neighbor; Just a few hours for his own bit of leisure, All the rest's gazing at other men's pleasure, All the rest's toiling, and yet he rejoices, All the world is, and that men do, he voices-- Who knows a calling more glorious than The day-by-day work of the newspaper man?

A BOY AND HIS DAD

A boy and his dad on a fishing-trip-- There is a glorious fellowship! Father and son and the open sky And the white clouds lazily drifting by, And the laughing stream as it runs along With the clicking reel like a martial song, And the father teaching the youngster gay How to land a fish in the sportsman's way.

I fancy I hear them talking there In an open boat, and the speech is fair. And the boy is learning the ways of men From the finest man in his youthful ken. Kings, to the youngster, cannot compare With the gentle father who's with him there. And the greatest mind of the human race Not for one minute could take his place.