Chapter 2
Which is happier, man or boy? The soul of the father is steeped in joy, For he's finding out, to his heart's delight, That his son is fit for the future fight. He is learning the glorious depths of him, And the thoughts he thinks and his every whim; And he shall discover, when night comes on, How close he has grown to his little son.
A boy and his dad on a fishing-trip-- Builders of life's companionship! Oh, I envy them, as I see them there Under the sky in the open air, For out of the old, old long-ago Come the summer days that I used to know, When I learned life's truths from my father's lips As I shared the joy of his fishing-trips.
BREAD AND GRAVY
There's a heap o' satisfaction in a chunk o' pumpkin pie, An' I'm always glad I'm livin' when the cake is passin' by; An' I guess at every meal-time I'm as happy as can be, For I like whatever dishes Mother gets for Bud an' me; But there's just one bit of eatin' which I hold supremely great, An' that's good old bread and gravy when I've finished up my plate.
I've eaten fancy dishes an' my mouth has watered, too; I've been at banquet tables an' I've run the good things through; I've had sea food up in Boston, I've had pompano down South, For most everything that's edible I've put into my mouth; But the finest treat I know of, now I publicly relate, Is a chunk of bread and gravy when I've finished up my plate.
Now the epicures may snicker and the hotel chefs may smile, But when it comes to eating I don't hunger much for style; For an empty man wants fillin' an' you can't do that with things Like breast o' guinea under glass, or curried turkey wings-- You want just plain home cookin' an' the chance to sit an' wait For a piece o' bread an' gravy when you've finished up your plate.
Oh, it may be I am common an' my tastes not much refined, But the meals which suit my fancy are the good old-fashioned kind, With the food right on the table an' the hungry kids about An' the mother an' the father handing all the good things out, An' the knowledge in their presence that I needn't fear to state, That I'd like some bread an' gravy when I've finished up my plate.
THE GRATE FIRE
I'm sorry for a fellow if he cannot look and see In a grate fire's friendly flaming all the joys which used to be. If in quiet contemplation of a cheerful ruddy blaze He sees nothing there recalling all his happy yesterdays, Then his mind is dead to fancy and his life is bleak and bare, And he's doomed to walk the highways that are always thick with care.
When the logs are dry as tinder and they crackle with the heat, And the sparks, like merry children, come a-dancing round my feet, In the cold, long nights of autumn I can sit before the blaze And watch a panorama born of all my yesterdays. I can leave the present burdens and that moment's bit of woe, And claim once more the gladness of the bygone long ago.
There are no absent faces in the grate fire's merry throng; No hands in death are folded, and no lips are stilled to song. All the friends who were are living--like the sparks that fly about; They come romping out to greet me with the same old merry shout, Till it seems to me I'm playing once again on boyhood's stage, Where there's no such thing as sorrow and there's no such thing as age.
I can be the care-free schoolboy! I can play the lover, too! I can walk through Maytime orchards with the old sweetheart I knew; I can dream the glad dreams over, greet the old familiar friends In a land where there's no parting and the laughter never ends. All the gladness life has given from a grate fire I reclaim, And I'm sorry for the fellow who can only see the flame.
THE KINDLY NEIGHBOR
I have a kindly neighbor, one who stands Beside my gate and chats with me awhile, Gives me the glory of his radiant smile And comes at times to help with willing hands. No station high or rank this man commands, He, too, must trudge, as I, the long day's mile; And yet, devoid of pomp or gaudy style, He has a worth exceeding stocks or lands.
To him I go when sorrow's at my door, On him I lean when burdens come my way, Together oft we talk our trials o'er And there is warmth in each good-night we say. A kindly neighbor! Wars and strife shall end When man has made the man next door his friend.
THE TEARS EXPRESSIVE
Death crossed his threshold yesterday And left the glad voice of his loved one dumb. To him the living now will come And cross his threshold in the self-same way To clasp his hand and vainly try to say Words that shall soothe the heart that's stricken numb.
And I shall be among them in that place So still and silent, where she used to sing-- The glad, sweet spirit that has taken wing-- Where shone the radiance of her lovely face, And where she met him oft with fond embrace, I shall step in to share his sorrowing.
Beside the staircase that has known her hand And in the hall her presence made complete, The home her life endowed with memories sweet Where everything has heard her sweet command And seems to wear her beauty, I shall stand Wondering just how to greet him when we meet.
I dread the very silence of the place, I dread our meeting and the time to speak-- Speech seems so vain when sorrow's at the peak! Yet though my words lack soothing power or grace, Perhaps he'll catch their meaning in my face And read the tears which glisten on my cheek.
THE JOYS WE MISS
There never comes a lonely day but what we miss the laughing ways Of those who used to walk with us through all our happy yesterdays. We seldom miss the earthly great--the famous men that life has known-- But, as the years go racing by, we miss the friends we used to own.
The chair wherein he used to sit recalls the kindly father true, For, oh, so filled with fun he was, and, oh, so very much he knew! And as we face the problems grave with which the years of life are filled, We miss the hand which guided us and miss the voice forever stilled.
We little guessed how much he did to smooth our pathway day by day, How much of joy he brought to us, how much of care he brushed away; But now that we must tread alone the thoroughfare of life, we find How many burdens we were spared by him who was so brave and kind.
Death robs the living, not the dead--they sweetly sleep whose tasks are done; But we are weaker than before who still must live and labor on. For when come care and grief to us, and heavy burdens bring us woe, We miss the smiling, helpful friends on whom we leaned long years ago.
We miss the happy, tender ways of those who brought us mirth and cheer; We never gather round the hearth but what we wish our friends were near; For peace is born of simple things--a kindly word, a good-night kiss, The prattle of a babe, and love--these are the vanished joys we miss.
LITTLE FEET
There is no music quite so sweet As patter of a baby's feet. Who never hears along the hall The sound of tiny feet that fall Upon the floor so soft and low As eagerly they come or go, Has missed, no matter who he be, Life's most inspiring symphony.
There is a music of the spheres Too fine to ring in mortal ears, Yet not more delicate and sweet Than pattering of baby feet; Where'er I hear that pit-a-pat Which falls upon the velvet mat, Out of my dreamy nap I start And hear the echo in my heart.
'Tis difficult to put in words The music of the summer birds, Yet far more difficult a thing-- A lyric for that pattering; Here is a music telling me Of golden joys that are to be; Unheralded by horns and drums, To me a regal caller comes.
Now on my couch I lie and hear A little toddler coming near, Coming right boldly to my place To pull my hair and pat my face, Undaunted by my age or size, Nor caring that I am not wise-- A visitor devoid of sham Who loves me just for what I am.
This soft low music tells to me In just a minute I shall be Made captive by a thousand charms, Held fast by chubby little arms, For there is one upon the way Who thinks the world was made for play. Oh, where's the sound that's half so sweet As pattering of baby feet?
JUST LIKE A MAN
This is the phrase they love to say: "Just like a man!" You can hear it wherever you chance to stray: "Just like a man!" The wife of the toiler, the queen of the king, The bride with the shiny new wedding-ring And the grandmothers, too, at our sex will fling, "Just like a man!"
Cranky and peevish at times we grow: "Just like a man!" Now and then boastful of what we know: "Just like a man!" Whatever our failings from day to day-- Stingy, or giving our goods away-- With a toss of her head, she is sure to say, "Just like a man!"
Unannounced strangers we bring to tea: "Just like a man!" Heedless of every propriety: "Just like a man!" Grumbling at money she spends for spats And filmy dresses and gloves and hats, Yet wanting her stylishly garbed, and that's "Just like a man!"
Wanting attention from year to year: "Just like a man!" Seemingly helpless when she's not near: "Just like a man!" Troublesome often, and quick to demur, Still remaining the boys we were, Yet soothed and blest by the love of her: "Just like a man!"
CLINCHING THE BOLT
It needed just an extra turn to make the bolt secure, A few more minutes on the job and then the work was sure; But he begrudged the extra turn, and when the task was through, The man was back for more repairs in just a day or two.
Two men there are in every place, and one is only fair, The other gives the extra turn to every bolt that's there; One man is slip-shod in his work and eager to be quit, The other never leaves a task until he's sure of it.
The difference 'twixt good and bad is not so very much, A few more minutes at the task, an extra turn or touch, A final test that all is right--and yet the men are few Who seem to think it worth their while these extra things to do.
The poor man knows as well as does the good man how to work, But one takes pride in every task, the other likes to shirk; With just as little as he can, one seeks his pay to earn, The good man always gives the bolt that clinching, extra turn.
HIS PA
Some fellers' pas seem awful old, An' talk like they was going to scold, An' their hair's all gone, an' they never grin Or holler an' shout when they come in. They don't get out in the street an' play The way mine does at the close of day. It's just as funny as it can be, But my pa doesn't seem old to me.
He doesn't look old, an' he throws a ball, Just like a boy, with the curves an' all, An' he knows the kids by their first names, too, An' says they're just like the boys he knew. Some of the fellers are scared plumb stiff When their fathers are near 'em an' act as if They wuz doing wrong if they made a noise, But my pa seems to be one of the boys.
It's funny, but, somehow, I never can Think of my pa as a grown-up man. He doesn't frown an' he doesn't scold, An' he doesn't act as though he wuz old. He talks of the things I want to know, Just like one of our gang, an' so, Whenever we're out, it seems that he Is more like a pal than a pa to me.
EXAMPLE
Perhaps the victory shall not come to me, Perhaps I shall not reach the goal I seek, It may be at the last I shall be weak And falter as the promised land I see; Yet I must try for it and strive to be All that a conqueror is. On to the peak, Must be my call--this way lies victory! Boy, take my hand and hear me when I speak.
There is the goal. In honor make the fight. I may not reach it but, my boy, you can. Cling to your faith and work with all your might, Some day the world shall hail you as a man. And when at last shall come your happy day, Enough for me that I have shown the way.
WINDING THE CLOCK
When I was but a little lad, my old Grandfather said That none should wind the clock but he, and so, at time for bed, He'd fumble for the curious key kept high upon the shelf And set aside that little task entirely for himself.
In time Grandfather passed away, and so that duty fell Unto my Father, who performed the weekly custom well; He held that clocks were not to be by careless persons wound, And he alone should turn the key or move the hands around.
I envied him that little task, and wished that I might be The one to be entrusted with the turning of the key; But year by year the clock was his exclusive bit of care Until the day the angels came and smoothed his silver hair.
To-day the task is mine to do, like those who've gone before I am a jealous guardian of that round and glassy door, And 'til at my chamber door God's messenger shall knock To me alone shall be reserved the right to wind the clock.
THE NEED
We were settin' there an' smokin' of our pipes, discussin' things, Like licker, votes for wimmin, an' the totterin' thrones o' kings, When he ups an' strokes his whiskers with his hand an' says t' me: "Changin' laws an' legislatures ain't, as fur as I can see, Goin' to make this world much better, unless somehow we can Find a way to make a better an' a finer sort o' man.
"The trouble ain't with statutes or with systems--not at all; It's with humans jus' like we air an' their petty ways an' small. We could stop our writin' law-books an' our regulatin' rules If a better sort of manhood was the product of our schools. For the things that we air needin' isn't writin' from a pen Or bigger guns to shoot with, but a bigger type of men.
"I reckon all these problems air jest ornery like the weeds. They grow in soil that oughta nourish only decent deeds, An' they waste our time an' fret us when, if we were thinkin' straight An' livin' right, they wouldn't be so terrible and great. A good horse needs no snaffle, an' a good man, I opine, Doesn't need a law to check him or to force him into line.
"If we ever start in teachin' to our children, year by year, How to live with one another, there'll be less o' trouble here. If we'd teach 'em how to neighbor an' to walk in honor's ways, We could settle every problem which the mind o' man can raise. What we're needin' isn't systems or some regulatin' plan, But a bigger an' a finer an' a truer type o' man."
TEN-FINGERED MICE
When a cake is nicely frosted and it's put away for tea, And it looks as trim and proper as a chocolate cake should be, Would it puzzle you at evening as you brought it from the ledge To find the chocolate missing from its smooth and shiny edge?
As you viewed the cake in sorrow would you look around and say, "Who's been nibbling in the pantry when he should have been at play?" And if little eyes look guilty as they hungered for a slice, Would you take Dad's explanation that it must have been the mice?
Oh, I'm sorry for the household that can keep a frosted cake Smooth and perfect through the daytime, for the hearts of them must ache-- For it must be very lonely to be living in a house Where the pantry's never ravaged by a glad ten-fingered mouse.
Though I've traveled far past forty, I confess that I, myself, Even now will nip a morsel from the good things on the shelf; And I never blame the youngsters who discover chocolate cake For the tiny little samples which exultantly they take.
THE THINGS THEY MUSTN'T TOUCH
Been down to the art museum an' looked at a thousand things, The bodies of ancient mummies an' the treasures of ancient kings, An' some of the walls were lovely, but some of the things weren't much, But all had a rail around 'em, an' all wore a sign "Don't touch."
Now maybe an art museum needs guards and a warning sign An' the hands of the folks should never paw over its treasures fine; But I noticed the rooms were chilly with all the joys they hold, An' in spite of the lovely pictures, I'd say that the place is cold.
An' somehow I got to thinkin' of many a home I know Which is kept like an art museum, an' merely a place for show; They haven't railed off their treasures or posted up signs or such, But all of the children know it--there's a lot that they mustn't touch.
It's hands off the grand piano, keep out of the finest chair, Stay out of the stylish parlor, don't run on the shiny stair; You may look at the velvet curtains which hang in the stately hall, But always and ever remember, they're not to be touched at all.
"Don't touch!" for an art museum, is proper enough, I know, But my children's feet shall scamper wherever they want to go, And I want no rare possessions or a joy which has cost so much, From which I must bar the children and tell them they "mustn't touch."
THE HARDER PART
It's mighty hard for Mother--I am busy through the day And the tasks of every morning keep the gloomy thoughts away, And I'm not forever meeting with a slipper or a gown To remind me of our sorrow when I'm toiling in the town. But with Mother it is different--there's no minute she is free From the sight of things which tell her of the joy which used to be.
She is brave and she is faithful, and we say we're reconciled, But your hearts are always heavy once you've lost a little child; And a man can face his sorrow in a manly sort of way, For his grief must quickly leave him when he's busy through the day; But the mother's lot is harder--she must learn to sing and smile Though she's living in the presence of her sorrow all the while.
Through the room where love once waited she must tip-toe day by day, She must see through every window where the baby used to play, And there's not a thing she touches, nor a task she finds to do, But it sets her heart to aching and begins the hurt anew. Oh, a man can turn from sorrow, for his mind is occupied, But the mother's lot is harder--grief is always at her side.
YOUTH
If I had youth I'd bid the world to try me; I'd answer every challenge to my will. Though mountains stood in silence to defy me, I'd try to make them subject to my skill. I'd keep my dreams and follow where they led me; I'd glory in the hazards which abound. I'd eat the simple fare privations fed me, And gladly make my couch upon the ground.
If I had youth I'd ask no odds of distance, Nor wish to tread the known and level ways. I'd want to meet and master strong resistance, And in a worth-while struggle spend my days. I'd seek the task which calls for full endeavor; I'd feel the thrill of battle in my veins. I'd bear my burden gallantly, and never Desert the hills to walk on common plains.
If I had youth no thought of failure lurking Beyond to-morrow's dawn should fright my soul. Let failure strike--it still should find me working With faith that I should some day reach my goal. I'd dice with danger--aye!--and glory in it; I'd make high stakes the purpose of my throw. I'd risk for much, and should I fail to win it, I would not even whimper at the blow.
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.
"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.