Chapter 2

I never shall forget the joy that suddenly was mine, The sweetness of the thrill that seemed to dance along my spine, The pride that swelled within me, as he shook my youthful hand And treated me as big enough with grown up men to stand. I felt my body straighten and a stiffening at each knee, And was gloriously happy, just because he'd "mistered" me.

I cannot now recall his name, I only wish I could. I've often wondered if that day he really understood How much it meant unto a boy, still wearing boyhood's tan, To find that others noticed that he'd grown to be a man. Now I try to treat as equal every growing boy I see In memory of that kindly man--the first to "mister" me.

Fishing Nooks

"Men will grow weary," said the Lord, "Of working for their bed and board. They'll weary of the money chase And want to find a resting place Where hum of wheel is never heard And no one speaks an angry word, And selfishness and greed and pride And petty motives don't abide. They'll need a place where they can go To wash their souls as white as snow. They will be better men and true If they can play a day or two."

The Lord then made the brooks to flow And fashioned rivers here below, And many lakes; for water seems Best suited for a mortal's dreams. He placed about them willow trees To catch the murmur of the breeze, And sent the birds that sing the best Among the foliage to nest. He filled each pond and stream and lake With fish for man to come and take; Then stretched a velvet carpet deep On which a weary soul could sleep.

It seemed to me the Good Lord knew That man would want something to do When worn and wearied with the stress Of battling hard for world success. When sick at heart of all the strife And pettiness of daily life, He knew he'd need, from time to time, To cleanse himself of city grime, And he would want some place to be Where hate and greed he'd never see. And so on lakes and streams and brooks The Good Lord fashioned fishing nooks.

Show the Flag

Show the flag and let it wave As a symbol of the brave Let it float upon the breeze As a sign for each who sees That beneath it, where it rides, Loyalty to-day abides.

Show the flag and signify That it wasn't born to die; Let its colors speak for you That you still are standing true, True in sight of God and man To the work that flag began.

Show the flag that all may see That you serve humanity. Let it whisper to the breeze That comes singing through the trees That whatever storms descend You'll be faithful to the end.

Show the flag and let it fly, Cheering every passer-by. Men that may have stepped aside, May have lost their old-time pride, May behold it there, and then, Consecrate themselves again.

Show the flag! The day is gone When men blindly hurry on Serving only gods of gold; Now the spirit that was cold Warms again to courage fine. Show the flag and fall in line!

Constant Beauty

It's good to have the trees again, the singing of the breeze again, It's good to see the lilacs bloom as lovely as of old. It's good that we can feel again the touch of beauties real again, For hearts and minds, of sorrow now, have all that they can hold.

The roses haven't changed a bit, nor have the lilacs stranged a bit, They bud and bloom the way they did before the war began. The world is upside down to-day, there's much to make us frown to-day, And gloom and sadness everywhere beset the path of man.

But now the lilacs bloom again and give us their perfume again, And now the roses smile at us and nod along the way; And it is good to see again the blossoms on each tree again, And feel that nature hasn't changed the way we have to-day.

Oh, we have changed from what we were; we're not the carefree lot we were; Our hearts are filled with sorrow now and grave concern and pain, But it is good to see once more, the blooming lilac tree once more, And find the constant roses here to comfort us again.

A Patriotic Creed

To serve my country day by day At any humble post I may; To honor and respect her flag, To live the traits of which I brag; To be American in deed As well as in my printed creed.

To stand for truth and honest toil, To till my little patch of soil, And keep in mind the debt I owe To them who died that I might know My country, prosperous and free, And passed this heritage to me.

I always must in trouble's hour Be guided by the men in power; For God and country I must live, My best for God and country give; No act of mine that men may scan Must shame the name American.

To do my best and play my part, American in mind and heart; To serve the flag and bravely stand To guard the glory of my land; To be American in deed: God grant me strength to keep this creed!

Home

The road to laughter beckons me, The road to all that's best; The home road where I nightly see The castle of my rest; The path where all is fine and fair, And little children run, For love and joy are waiting there As soon as day is done.

There is no rich reward of fame That can compare with this: At home I wear an honest name, My lips are fit to kiss. At home I'm always brave and strong, And with the setting sun They find no trace of shame or wrong In anything I've done.

There shine the eyes that only see The good I've tried to do; They think me what I'd like to be; They know that I am true. And whether I have lost my fight Or whether I have won, I find a faith that I've been right As soon as day is done.

The Old-Time Family

It makes me smile to hear 'em tell each other nowadays The burdens they are bearing, with a child or two to raise. Of course the cost of living has gone soaring to the sky And our kids are wearing garments that my parents couldn't buy. Now my father wasn't wealthy, but I never heard him squeal Because eight of us were sitting at the table every meal.

People fancy they are martyrs if their children number three, And four or five they reckon makes a large-sized family. A dozen hungry youngsters at a table I have seen And their daddy didn't grumble when they licked the platter clean. Oh, I wonder how these mothers and these fathers up-to-date Would like the job of buying little shoes for seven or eight.

We were eight around the table in those happy days back them, Eight that cleaned our plates of pot-pie and then passed them up again; Eight that needed shoes and stockings, eight to wash and put to bed, And with mighty little money in the purse, as I have said, But with all the care we brought them, and through all the days of stress, I never heard my father or my mother wish for less.

The Job

The job will not make you, my boy; The job will not bring you to fame Or riches or honor or joy Or add any weight to your name. You may fail or succeed where you are, May honestly serve or may rob; From the start to the end Your success will depend On just what you make of your job.

Don't look on the job as the thing That shall prove what you're able to do; The job does no more than to bring A chance for promotion to you. Men have shirked in high places and won Very justly the jeers of the mob; And you'll find it is true That it's all up to you To say what shall come from the job.

The job is an incident small; The thing that's important is man. The job will not help you at all If you won't do the best that you can. It is you that determines your fate, You stand with your hand on the knob Of fame's doorway to-day, And life asks you to say Just what you will make of your job.

Toys

I can pass up the lure of a jewel to wear With never the trace of a sigh, The things on a shelf that I'd like for myself I never regret I can't buy. I can go through the town passing store after store Showing things it would please me to own, With never a trace of despair on my face, But I can't let a toy shop alone.

I can throttle the love of fine raiment to death And I don't know the craving for rum, But I do know the joy that is born of a toy, And the pleasure that comes with a drum I can reckon the value of money at times, And govern my purse strings with sense, But I fall for a toy for my girl or my boy And never regard the expense.

It's seldom I sigh for unlimited gold Or the power of a rich man to buy; My courage is stout when the doing without Is only my duty, but I Curse the shackles of thrift when I gaze at the toys That my kiddies are eager to own, And I'd buy everything that they wish for, by Jing! If their mother would let me alone.

There isn't much fun spending coin on myself For neckties and up-to-date lids, But there's pleasure tenfold, in the silver and gold I part with for things for the kids. I can go through the town passing store after store Showing things it would please me to own, But to thrift I am lost; I won't reckon the cost When I'm left in a toy shop alone.

The Mother on the Sidewalk

The mother on the sidewalk as the troops are marching by Is the mother of Old Glory that is waving in the sky. Men have fought to keep it splendid, men have died to keep it bright, But that flag was born of woman and her sufferings day and night; 'Tis her sacrifice has made it, and once more we ought to pray For the brave and loyal mother of the boy who goes away.

There are days of grief before her; there are hours that she will weep; There are nights of anxious waiting when her fear will banish sleep; She has heard her country calling and has risen to the test, And has placed upon the altar of the nation's need, her best. And no man shall ever suffer in the turmoil of the fray The anguish of the mother of the boy who goes away.

You may boast men's deeds of glory, you may tell their courage great, But to die is easier service than alone to sit and wait, And I hail the little mother, with the tear-stained face and grave, Who has given the flag a soldier--she's the bravest of the brave. And that banner we are proud of, with its red and blue and white, Is a lasting holy tribute to all mothers' love of right.

Memorial Day

The finest tribute we can pay Unto our hero dead to-day, Is not a rose wreath, white and red, In memory of the blood they shed; It is to stand beside each mound, Each couch of consecrated ground, And pledge ourselves as warriors true Unto the work they died to do.

Into God's valleys where they lie At rest, beneath the open sky, Triumphant now o'er every foe, As living tributes let us go. No wreath of rose or immortelles Or spoken word or tolling bells Will do to-day, unless we give Our pledge that liberty shall live.

Our hearts must be the roses red We place above our hero dead; To-day beside their graves we must Renew allegiance to their trust; Must bare our heads and humbly say We hold the Flag as dear as they, And stand, as once they stood, to die To keep the Stars and Stripes on high.

The finest tribute we can pay Unto our hero dead to-day Is not of speech or roses red, But living, throbbing hearts instead, That shall renew the pledge they sealed With death upon the battlefield: That freedom's flag shall bear no stain And free men wear no tyrant's chain.

Memory

I stood and watched him playing, A little lad of three, And back to me came straying The years that used to be; In him the boy was Maying Who once belonged to me.

The selfsame brown his eyes were As those that once I knew; As glad and gay his cries were, He owned his laughter, too. His features, form and size were My baby's, through and through.

His ears were those I'd sung to; His chubby little hands Were those that I had clung to; His hair in golden strands It seemed my heart was strung to By love's unbroken bands.

With him I lived the old days That seem so far away; The beautiful and bold days When he was here to play; The sunny and the gold days Of that remembered May.

I know not who he may be Nor where his home may be, But I shall every day be In hope again to see The image of the baby Who once belonged to me.

The Stick-Together Families

The stick-together families are happier by far Than the brothers and the sisters who take separate highways are. The gladdest people living are the wholesome folks who make A circle at the fireside that no power but death can break. And the finest of conventions ever held beneath the sun Are the little family gatherings when the busy day is done.

There are rich folk, there are poor folk, who imagine they are wise, And they're very quick to shatter all the little family ties. Each goes searching after pleasure in his own selected way, Each with strangers likes to wander, and with strangers likes to play. But it's bitterness they harvest, and it's empty joy they find, For the children that are wisest are the stick-together kind.

There are some who seem to fancy that for gladness they must roam, That for smiles that are the brightest they must wander far from home. That the strange friend is the true friend, and they travel far astray they waste their lives in striving for a joy that's far away, But the gladdest sort of people, when the busy day is done, Are the brothers and the sisters who together share their fun.

It's the stick-together family that wins the joys of earth, That hears the sweetest music and that finds the finest mirth; It's the old home roof that shelters all the charm that life can give; There you find the gladdest play-ground, there the happiest spot to live. And, O weary, wandering brother, if contentment you would win, Come you back unto the fireside and be comrade with your kin.

Childless

If certain folks that I know well Should come to me their woes to tell I'd read the sorrow in their faces And I could analyze their cases. I watch some couples day by day Go madly on their selfish way Forever seeking happiness And always finding something less. If she whose face is fair to see, Yet lacks one charm that there should be, Should open wide her heart to-day I think I know what she would say.

She'd tell me that his love seems cold And not the love she knew of old; That for the home they've built to share No longer does her husband care; That he seems happier away Than by her side, and every day That passes leaves them more apart; And then perhaps her tears would start And in a softened voice she'd add: "Sometimes I wonder, if we had A baby now to love, if he Would find so many faults in me?"

And if he came to tell his woe Just what he'd say to me, I know: "There's something dismal in the place That always stares me in the face. I love her. She is good and sweet But still my joy is incomplete. And then it seems to me that she Can only see the faults in me. I wonder sometimes if we had A little girl or little lad, If life with all its fret and fuss Would then seem so monotonous?"

And what I'd say to them I know. I'd bid them straightway forth to go And find that child and take him in And start the joy of life to win. You foolish, hungry souls, I'd say, You're living in a selfish way. A baby's arms stretched out to you Will give you something real to do. And though God has not sent one down To you, within this very town Somewhere a little baby lies That would bring gladness to your eyes.

You cannot live this life for gold Or selfish joys. As you grow old You'll find that comfort only springs From living for the living things. And home must be a barren place That never knows a baby's face. Take in a child that needs your care, Give him your name and let him share Your happiness and you will own More joy than you have ever known, And, what is more, you'll come to feel That you are doing something real.

The Crucible of Life

Sunshine and shadow, blue sky and gray, Laughter and tears as we tread on our way; Hearts that are heavy, then hearts that are light, Eyes that are misty and eyes that are bright; Losses and gains in the heat of the strife, Each in proportion to round out his life.

Into the crucible, stirred by the years, Go all our hopes and misgivings and fears; Glad days and sad days, our pleasures and pains, Worries and comforts, our losses and gains. Out of the crucible shall there not come Joy undefiled when we pour off the scum?

Out of the sadness and anguish and woe, Out of the travail and burdens we know, Out of the shadow that darkens the way, Out of the failure that tries us to-day, Have you a doubt that contentment will come When you've purified life and discarded the scum?

Tinctured with sorrow and flavored with sighs, Moistened with tears that have flowed from your eyes; Perfumed with sweetness of loves that have died, Leavened with failures, with grief sanctified, Sacred and sweet is the joy that must come From the furnace of life when you've poured off the scum.

Unimportant Differences

If he is honest, kindly, true, And glad to work from day to day; If when his bit of toil is through With children he will stoop to play; If he does always what he can To serve another's time of need, Then I shall hail him as a man And never ask him what's his creed.

If he respects a woman's name And guards her from all thoughtless jeers; If he is glad to play life's game And not risk all to get the cheers; If he disdains to win by bluff And scorns to gain by shady tricks, I hold that he is good enough Regardless of his politics.

If he is glad his much to share With them who little here possess, If he will stand by what is fair And not desert to claim success, If he will leave a smile behind As he proceeds from place to place, He has the proper frame of mind, And I won't stop to ask his race.

For when at last life's battle ends And all the troops are called on high We shall discover many friends That thoughtlessly we journeyed by. And we shall learn that God above Has judged His creatures by their deeds, That millions there have won His love Who spoke in different tongues and creeds.

The Fishing Outfit

You may talk of stylish raiment, You may boast your broadcloth fine, And the price you gave in payment May be treble that of mine. But there's one suit I'd not trade you Though it's shabby and it's thin, For the garb your tailor made you: That's the tattered, Mud-bespattered Suit that I go fishing in.

There's no king in silks and laces And with jewels on his breast, With whom I would alter places. There's no man so richly dressed Or so like a fashion panel That, his luxuries to win, I would swap my shirt of flannel And the rusty, Frayed and dusty Suit that I go fishing in.

'Tis an outfit meant for pleasure; It is freedom's raiment, too; It's a garb that I shall treasure Till my time of life is through. Though perhaps it looks the saddest Of all robes for mortal skin, I am proudest and I'm gladdest In that easy, Old and greasy Suit that I go fishing in.

Grown Up

Last year he wanted building blocks, And picture books and toys, A saddle horse that gayly rocks, And games for little boys. But now he's big and all that stuff His whim no longer suits; He tells us that he's old enough To ask for rubber boots.

Last year whatever Santa brought Delighted him to own; He never gave his wants a thought Nor made his wishes known. But now he says he wants a gun, The kind that really shoots, And I'm confronted with a son Demanding rubber boots.

The baby that we used to know Has somehow slipped away, And when or where he chanced to go Not one of us can say. But here's a helter-skelter lad That to me nightly scoots And boldly wishes that he had A pair of rubber boots.