Chapter 3

No hour too late, no night too rough for him to heed our call; He knew exactly where to hang his coat up in the hall; He knew exactly where to go, which room upstairs to find The patient he'd been called to see, and saying: "Never mind, I'll run up there myself and see what's causing all the fuss." It seems we grew to look and lean on him as one of us.

He had a big and kindly heart, a fine and tender way, And more than once I've wished that I could call him in to-day. The specialists are clever men and busy men, I know, And haven't time to doctor as they did long years ago; But some day he may come again, the friend that we can call, The good old family doctor who will love us one and all.

DENIAL

I'd like to give 'em all they ask--it hurts to have to answer, "No," And say they cannot have the things they tell me they are wanting so; Yet now and then they plead for what I know would not be good to give Or what I can't afford to buy, and that's the hardest hour I live.

They little know or understand how happy I would be to grant Their every wish, yet there are times it isn't wise, or else I can't. And sometimes, too, I can't explain the reason when they question why Their pleadings for some passing joy it is my duty to deny.

I only know I'd like to see them smile forever on life's way; I would not have them shed one tear or ever meet a troubled day. And I would be content with life and gladly face each dreary task, If I could always give to them the little treasures that they ask.

Sometimes we pray to God above and ask for joys that are denied, And when He seems to scorn our plea, in bitterness we turn aside. And yet the Father of us all, Who sees and knows just what is best, May wish, as often here we wish, that He could grant what we request.

THE WORKMAN'S DREAM

To-day it's dirt and dust and steam, To-morrow it will be the same, And through it all the soul must dream And try to play a manly game; Dirt, dust and steam and harsh commands, Yet many a soft hand passes by And only thinks he understands The purpose of my task and why.

I've seen men shudder just to see Me standing at this lathe of mine, And knew somehow they pitied me, But I have never made a whine; For out of all this dirt and dust And clang and clamor day by day, Beyond toil's everlasting "must," I see my little ones at play.

The hissing steam would drive me mad If hissing steam was all I heard; But there's a boy who calls me dad Who daily keeps my courage spurred; And there's a little girl who waits Each night for all that I may bring, And I'm the guardian of their fates, Which makes this job a wholesome thing.

Beyond the dust and dirt and steam I see a college where he'll go; And when I shall fulfill my dream, More than his father he will know; And she shall be a woman fair, Fit for the world to love and trust-- I'll give my land a glorious pair Out of this place of dirt and dust.

THE HOMELY MAN

Looks as though a cyclone hit him-- Can't buy clothes that seem to fit him; An' his cheeks are rough like leather, Made for standin' any weather. Outwards he wuz fashioned plainly, Loose o' joint an' blamed ungainly, But I'd give a lot if I'd Been prepared so fine inside.

Best thing I can tell you of him Is the way the children love him. Now an' then I get to thinkin' He is much like old Abe Lincoln-- Homely like a gargoyle graven, An' looks worse when he's unshaven; But I'd take his ugly phiz Jes' to have a heart like his.

I ain't over-sentimental, But old Blake is so blamed gentle An' so thoughtful-like of others He reminds us of our mothers. Rough roads he is always smoothin', An' his way is, oh, so soothin' That he takes away the sting When your heart is sorrowing.

Children gather round about him Like they can't get on without him. An' the old depend upon him, Pilin' all their burdens on him, Like as though the thing that grieves 'em Has been lifted when he leaves 'em. Homely? That can't be denied. But he's glorious inside.

UNCHANGEABLE MOTHER

Mothers never change, I guess, In their tender thoughtfulness. Makes no difference that you grow Up to forty years or so, Once you cough, you'll find that she Sees you as you used to be, An' she wants to tell to you All the things that you must do.

Just show symptoms of a cold, She'll forget that you've grown old. Though there's silver in your hair, Still you need a mother's care, An' she'll ask you things like these: "You still wearing b. v. d.'s? Summer days have long since gone, You should have your flannels on."

Grown and married an' maybe Father of a family, But to mother you are still Just her boy when you are ill; Just the lad that used to need Plasters made of mustard seed; An' she thinks she has to see That you get your flaxseed tea.

Mothers never change, I guess, In their tender thoughtfulness. All her gentle long life through She is bent on nursing you; An' although you may be grown, She still claims you for her own, An' to her you'll always be Just a youngster at her knee.

LIFE

Life is a jest; Take the delight of it. Laughter is best; Sing through the night of it. Swiftly the tear And the hurt and the ache of it Find us down here; Life must be what we make of it.

Life is a song; Let us dance to the thrill of it. Grief's hours are long, And cold is the chill of it. Joy is man's need; Let us smile for the sake of it. This be our creed: Life must be what we make of it.

Life is a soul; The virtue and vice of it. Strife for a goal, And man's strength is the price of it. Your life and mine, The bare bread and the cake of it, End in this line: Life must be what we make of it.

SUCCESS

This I would claim for my success--not fame nor gold, Nor the throng's changing cheers from day to day, Not always ease and fortune's glad display, Though all of these are pleasant joys to hold; But I would like to have my story told By smiling friends with whom I've shared the way, Who, thinking of me, nod their heads and say: "His heart was warm when other hearts were cold.

"None turned to him for aid and found it not, His eyes were never blind to man's distress, Youth and old age he lived, nor once forgot The anguish and the ache of loneliness; His name was free from stain or shameful blot And in his friendship men found happiness."

THE LONELY OLD FELLOW

The roses are bedded for winter, the tulips are planted for spring; The robins and martins have left us; there are only the sparrows to sing. The garden seems solemnly silent, awaiting its blankets of snow, And I feel like a lonely old fellow with nowhere to turn or to go.

All summer I've hovered about them, all summer they've nodded at me; I've wandered and waited among them the first pink of blossom to see; I've known them and loved and caressed them, and now all their splendor has fled, And the harsh winds of winter all tell me the friends of my garden are dead.

I'm a lonely old fellow, that's certain. All winter with nothing to do But sit by the window recalling the days when my skies were all blue; But my heart is not given to sorrow and never my lips shall complain, For winter shall pass and the sunshine shall give me my roses again.

And so for the friends that have vanished, the friends that they tell me are dead, Who have traveled the road to God's Acres and sleep where the willows are spread; They have left me a lonely old fellow to sit here and dream by the pane, But I know, like the friends of my garden, we shall all meet together again.

SOMEBODY ELSE

Somebody wants a new bonnet to wear; Somebody wants a new dress; Somebody needs a new bow for her hair, And never the wanting grows less. Oh, this is the reason I labor each day And this is the joy of my tasks: That deep in the envelope holding my pay Is something that somebody asks.

I could go begging for water and bread And travel the highways of ease, But somebody wants a roof over his head And stockings to cover his knees. I could go shirking the duties of life And laugh when necessity pleads, But rather I stand to the toil and the strife To furnish what somebody needs.

Somebody wants what I've strength to supply, And somebody's waiting for me To come home to-night with money to buy Her bread and her cake and her tea. And as I am strong so her laughter will ring, And as I am true she will smile; It's the somebody else of the toiler or king That makes all the struggle worth while.

Somebody needs all the courage I own, And somebody's trust is in me; For never a man who can go it alone, Whatever his station may be. So I stand to my task and I stand to my care, And struggle to come to success, For the ribbons to tie up somebody's hair, And my somebody's pretty new dress.

EFFORT

He brought me his report card from the teacher and he said He wasn't very proud of it and sadly bowed his head. He was excellent in reading, but arithmetic, was fair, And I noticed there were several "unsatisfactorys" there; But one little bit of credit which was given brought me joy-- He was "excellent in effort," and I fairly hugged the boy.

"Oh, it doesn't make much difference what is written on your card," I told that little fellow, "if you're only trying hard. The 'very goods' and 'excellents' are fine, I must agree, But the effort you are making means a whole lot more to me; And the thing that's most important when this card is put aside Is to know, in spite of failure, that to do your best you've tried.

"Just keep excellent in effort--all the rest will come to you. There isn't any problem but some day you'll learn to do, And at last, when you grow older, you will come to understand That by hard and patient toiling men have risen to command And some day you will discover when a greater goal's at stake That better far than brilliance is the effort you will make."

LIVING

The miser thinks he's living when he's hoarding up his gold; The soldier calls it living when he's doing something bold; The sailor thinks it living to be tossed upon the sea, And upon this very subject no two men of us agree. But I hold to the opinion, as I walk my way along, That living's made of laughter and good-fellowship and song.

I wouldn't call it living to be always seeking gold, To bank all the present gladness for the days when I'll be old. I wouldn't call it living to spend all my strength for fame, And forego the many pleasures which to-day are mine to claim. I wouldn't for the splendor of the world set out to roam, And forsake my laughing children and the peace I know at home.

Oh, the thing that I call living isn't gold or fame at all! It's fellowship and sunshine, and it's roses by the wall. It's evenings glad with music and a hearth-fire that's ablaze, And the joys which come to mortals in a thousand different ways. It is laughter and contentment and the struggle for a goal; It is everything that's needful in the shaping of a soul.

A WARM HOUSE AND A RUDDY FIRE

A warm house and a ruddy fire, To what more can man aspire? Eyes that shine with love aglow, Is there more for man to know?

Whether home be rich or poor, If contentment mark the door He who finds it good to live Has the best that life can give.

This the end of mortal strife! Peace at night to sweeten life, Rest when mind and body tire, At contentment's ruddy fire.

Rooms where merry songs are sung, Happy old and glorious young; These, if perfect peace be known, Both the rich and poor must own.

A warm house and a ruddy fire, These the goals of all desire, These the dream of every man Since God spoke and life began.

THE ONE IN TEN

Nine passed him by with a hasty look, Each bent on his eager way; One glance at him was the most they took, "Somebody stuck," said they; But it never occurred to the nine to heed A stranger's plight and a stranger's need.

The tenth man looked at the stranded car, And he promptly stopped his own. "Let's see if I know what your troubles are," Said he in a cheerful tone; "Just stuck in the mire. Here's a cable stout, Hitch onto my bus and I'll pull you out."

"A thousand thanks," said the stranger then, "For the debt that I owe you; I've counted them all and you're one in ten Such a kindly deed to do." And the tenth man smiled and he answered then, "Make sure that you'll be the one in ten."

Are you one of the nine who pass men by In this hasty life we live? Do you refuse with a downcast eye The help which you could give? Or are you the one in ten whose creed Is always to stop for the man in need?

TO A YOUNG MAN

The great were once as you. They whom men magnify to-day Once groped and blundered on life's way, Were fearful of themselves, and thought By magic was men's greatness wrought. They feared to try what they could do; Yet Fame hath crowned with her success The selfsame gifts that you possess.

The great were young as you, Dreaming the very dreams you hold, Longing yet fearing to be bold, Doubting that they themselves possessed The strength and skill for every test, Uncertain of the truths they knew, Not sure that they could stand to fate With all the courage of the great.

Then came a day when they Their first bold venture made, Scorning to cry for aid. They dared to stand to fight alone, Took up the gauntlet life had thrown, Charged full-front to the fray, Mastered their fear of self, and then, Learned that our great men are but men.

Oh, youth, go forth and do! You, too, to fame may rise; You can be strong and wise. Stand up to life and play the man-- You can if you'll but think you can; The great were once as you. You envy them their proud success? 'Twas won with gifts that you possess.

AFRAID OF HIS DAD

Bill Jones, who goes to school with me, Is the saddest boy I ever see. He's just so 'fraid he runs away When all of us fellows want to play, An' says he dassent stay about Coz if his father found it out He'd wallop him. An' he can't go With us to see a picture show On Saturdays, an' it's too bad, But he's afraid to ask his dad.

When he gets his report card, he Is just as scared as scared can be, An' once I saw him when he cried Becoz although he'd tried an' tried His best, the teacher didn't care An' only marked his spelling fair, An' he told me there'd be a fight When his dad saw his card that night. It seems to me it's awful bad To be so frightened of your dad.

My Dad ain't that way--I can go An' tell him everything I know, An' ask him things, an' when he comes Back home at night he says we're chums; An' we go out an' take a walk, An' all the time he lets me talk. I ain't scared to tell him what I've done to-day that I should not; When I get home I'm always glad To stay around an' play with Dad.

Bill Jones, he says, he wishes he Could have a father just like me, But his dad hasn't time to play, An' so he chases him away An' scolds him when he makes a noise An' licks him if he breaks his toys. Sometimes Bill says he's got to lie Or else get whipped, an' that is why It seems to me it's awful bad To be so frightened of your dad.

SERVICE

I have no wealth of gold to give away, But I can pledge to worthy causes these: I'll give my strength, my days and hours of ease, My finest thought and courage when I may, And take some deed accomplished for my pay. I cannot offer much in silver fees, But I can serve when richer persons play, And with my presence fill some vacancies.

There are some things beyond the gift of gold, A richer treasure's needed now and then; Some joys life needs which are not bought and sold-- The high occasion often calls for men. Some for release from service give their pelf, But he gives most who freely gives himself.