Chapter 3

I'll bet old Santa Claus will sigh When down our flue he comes, And seeks the babe that used to lie And suck his tiny thumbs, And finds within that little bed A grown up boy who hoots At building blocks, and wants instead A pair of rubber boots.

Departed Friends

The dead friends live and always will; Their presence hovers round us still. It seems to me they come to share Each joy or sorrow that we bear. Among the living I can feel The sweet departed spirits steal, And whether it be weal or woe, I walk with those I used to know. I can recall them to my side Whenever I am struggle-tried; I've but to wish for them, and they Come trooping gayly down the way, And I can tell to them my grief And from their presence find relief. In sacred memories below Still live the friends of long ago.

Laughter

Laughter sort o' settles breakfast better than digestive pills; Found it, somehow in my travels, cure for every sort of ills; When the hired help have riled me with their slipshod, careless ways, An' I'm bilin' mad an' cussin' an' my temper's all ablaze, If the calf gets me to laughin' while they're teachin' him to feed Pretty soon I'm feelin' better, 'cause I've found the cure I need.

Like to start the day with laughter; when I've had a peaceful night, An' can greet the sun all smilin', that day's goin' to be all right. But there's nothing goes to suit me, when my system's full of bile; Even horses quit their pullin' when the driver doesn't smile, But they'll buckle to the traces when they hear a glad giddap, Just as though they like to labor for a cheerful kind o' chap.

Laughter keeps me strong an' healthy. You can bet I'm all run down, Fit for doctor folks an' nurses when I cannot shake my frown. Found in farmin' laughter's useful, good for sheep an' cows an' goats; When I've laughed my way through summer, reap the biggest crop of oats. Laughter's good for any business, leastwise so it seems to me Never knew a smilin' feller but was busy as could be.

Sometimes sit an' think about it, ponderin' on the ways of life, Wonderin' why mortals gladly face the toil an care an' strife, Then I come to this conclusion--take it now for what it's worth It's the joy of laughter keeps us plodding on this stretch of earth. Men the fun o' life are seeking--that's the reason for the calf Spillin' mash upon his keeper--men are hungry for a laugh.

The Scoffer

If I had lived in Franklin's time I'm most afraid that I, Beholding him out in the rain, a kite about to fly, And noticing upon its tail the barn door's rusty key, Would, with the scoffers on the street, have chortled in my glee; And with a sneer upon my lips I would have said of Ben, "His belfry must be full of bats. He's raving, boys, again!"

I'm glad I didn't live on earth when Fulton had his dream, And told his neighbors marvelous tales of what he'd do with steam, For I'm not sure I'd not have been a member of the throng That couldn't see how paddle-wheels could shove a boat along. At "Fulton's Folly" I'd have sneered, as thousands did back then, And called the Clermont's architect the craziest of men.

Yet Franklin gave us wonders great and Fulton did the same, And many "boobs" have left behind an everlasting fame. And dead are all their scoffers now and all their sneers forgot And scarce a nickel's worth of good was brought here by the lot. I shudder when I stop to think, had I been living then, I might have been a scoffer, too, and jeered at Bob and Ben.

I am afraid to-day to sneer at any fellow's dream. Time was I thought men couldn't fly or sail beneath the stream. I never call a man a boob who toils throughout the night On visions that I cannot see, because he may be right. I always think of Franklin's trick, which brought the jeers of men. And to myself I say, "Who knows but here's another Ben?"

The Pathway of the Living

The pathway of the living is our ever-present care. Let us do our best to smooth it and to make it bright and fair; Let us travel it with kindness, let's be careful as we tread, And give unto the living what we'd offer to the dead.

The pathway of the living we can beautify and grace; We can line it deep with roses and make earth a happier place. But we've done all mortals can do, when our prayers are softly said For the souls of those that travel o'er the pathway of the dead.

The pathway of the living all our strength and courage needs, There we ought to sprinkle favors, there we ought to sow our deeds, There our smiles should be the brightest, there our kindest words be said, For the angels have the keeping of the pathway of the dead.

Lemon Pie

The world is full of gladness, There are joys of many kinds, There's a cure for every sadness, That each troubled mortal finds. And my little cares grow lighter And I cease to fret and sigh, And my eyes with joy grow brighter When she makes a lemon pie.

When the bronze is on the filling That's one mass of shining gold, And its molten joy is spilling On the plate, my heart grows bold And the kids and I in chorus Raise one glad exultant cry And we cheer the treat before us Which is mother's lemon pie.

Then the little troubles vanish, And the sorrows disappear, Then we find the grit to banish All the cares that hovered near, And we smack our lips in pleasure O'er a joy no coin can buy, And we down the golden treasure Which is known as lemon pie.

The Flag on the Farm

We've raised a flagpole on the farm And flung Old Glory to the sky, And it's another touch of charm That seems to cheer the passer-by, But more than that, no matter where We're laboring in wood and field, We turn and see it in the air, Our promise of a greater yield. It whispers to us all day long, From dawn to dusk: "Be true, be strong; Who falters now with plow or hoe Gives comfort to his country's foe."

It seems to me I've never tried To do so much about the place, Nor been so slow to come inside, But since I've got the flag to face, Each night when I come home to rest I feel that I must look up there And say: "Old Flag, I've done my best, To-day I've tried to do my share." And sometimes, just to catch the breeze, I stop my work, and o'er the trees Old Glory fairly shouts my way: "You're shirking far too much to-day!"

The help have caught the spirit, too; The hired man takes off his cap Before the old red, white and blue, Then to the horses says: "giddap!" And starting bravely to the field He tells the milkmaid by the door: "We're going to make these acres yield More than they've ever done before." She smiles to hear his gallant brag, Then drops a curtsey to the flag. And in her eyes there seems to shine A patriotism that is fine.

We've raised a flagpole on the farm And flung Old Glory to the sky; We're far removed from war's alarm, But courage here is running high. We're doing things we never dreamed We'd ever find the time to do; Deeds that impossible once seemed Each morning now we hurry through. The flag now waves above our toil And sheds its glory on the soil, And boy and man looks up to it As if to say: "I'll do my bit!"

Heroes

There are different kinds of heroes, there are some you hear about. They get their pictures printed, and their names the newsboys shout; There are heroes known to glory that were not afraid to die In the service of their country and to keep the flag on high; There are brave men in the trenches, there are brave men on the sea, But the silent, quiet heroes also prove their bravery.

I am thinking of a hero that was never known to fame, Just a manly little fellow with a very common name; He was freckle-faced and ruddy, but his head was nobly shaped, And he one day took the whipping that his comrades all escaped. And he never made a murmur, never whimpered in reply; He would rather take the censure than to stand and tell a lie.

And I'm thinking of another that had courage that was fine, And I've often wished in moments that such strength of will were mine. He stood against his comrades, and he left them then and there When they wanted him to join them in a deed that wasn't fair. He stood alone, undaunted, with his little head erect; He would rather take the jeering than to lose his self-respect.

And I know a lot of others that have grown to manhood now, Who have yet to wear the laurel that adorns the victor's brow. They have plodded on in honor through the dusty, dreary ways, They have hungered for life's comforts and the joys of easy days, But they've chosen to be toilers, and in this their splendor's told: They would rather never have it than to do some things for gold.

The Mother's Question

When I was a boy, and it chanced to rain, Mother would always watch for me; She used to stand by the window pane, Worried and troubled as she could be. And this was the question I used to hear, The very minute that I drew near; The words she used, I can't forget: "Tell me, my boy, if your feet are wet."

Worried about me was mother dear, As healthy a lad as ever strolled Over a turnpike, far or near, 'Fraid to death that I'd take a cold. Always stood by the window pane, Watching for me in the pouring rain; And her words in my ears are ringing yet: "Tell me, my boy, if your feet are wet."

Stockings warmed by the kitchen fire, And slippers ready for me to wear; Seemed that mother would never tire, Giving her boy the best of care, Thinking of him the long day through, In the worried way that all mothers do; Whenever it rained she'd start to fret, Always fearing my feet were wet.

And now, whenever it rains, I see A vision of mother in days of yore, Still waiting there to welcome me, As she used to do by the open door. And always I think as I enter there Of a mother's love and a mother's care; Her words in my ears are ringing yet: "Tell me, my boy, if your feet are wet."

The Blue Flannel Shirt

I am eager once more to feel easy, I'm weary of thinking of dress; I'm heartily sick of stiff collars, And trousers the tailor must press. I'm eagerly waiting the glad days-- When fashion will cease to assert What I must put on every morning-- The days of the blue flannel shirt.

I want to get out in the country And rest by the side of the lake; To go a few days without shaving, And give grim old custom the shake. A week's growth of whiskers, I'm thinking, At present my chin wouldn't hurt; And I'm yearning to don those old trousers And loaf in that blue flannel shirt.

You can brag all you like of your fashions, The style of your cutaway coat; You can boast of your tailor-made raiment, And the collar that strangles your throat; But give me the old pair of trousers That seem to improve with the dirt, And let me get back to the comfort That's born of a blue flannel shirt.

Grandpa

My grandpa is the finest man Excep' my pa. My grandpa can Make kites an' carts an' lots of things You pull along the ground with strings, And he knows all the names of birds, And how they call 'thout using words, And where they live and what they eat, And how they build their nests so neat. He's lots of fun! Sometimes all day He comes to visit me and play. You see he's getting old, and so To work he doesn't have to go, And when it isn't raining, he Drops in to have some fun with me.

He takes my hand and we go out And everything we talk about. He tells me how God makes the trees, And why it hurts to pick up bees. Sometimes he stops and shows to me The place where fairies used to be; And then he tells me stories, too, And I am sorry when he's through. When I am asking him for more He says: "Why there's a candy store! Let's us go there and see if they Have got the kind we like to-day." Then when we get back home my ma Says: "You are spoiling Buddy, Pa."

My grandpa is my mother's pa, I guess that's what all grandpas are. And sometimes ma, all smiles, will say: "You didn't always act that way. When I was little, then you said That children should be sent to bed And not allowed to rule the place And lead old folks a merry chase." And grandpa laughs and says: "That's true, That's what I used to say to you. It is a father's place to show The young the way that they should go, But grandpas have a different task, Which is to get them all they ask."

When I get big and old and gray I'm going to spend my time in play; I'm going to be a grandpa, too, And do as all the grandpas do. I'll buy my daughter's children things Like horns and drums and tops with strings, And tell them all about the trees And frogs and fish and birds and bees And fairies in the shady glen And tales of giants, too, and when They beg of me for just one more, I'll take them to the candy store; I'll buy them everything they see The way my grandpa does for me

Pa Did It

The train of cars that Santa brought is out of kilter now; While pa was showing how they went he broke the spring somehow. They used to run around a track--at least they did when he Would let me take them in my hands an' wind 'em with a key. I could 'a' had some fun with 'em, if only they would go, But, gee! I never had a chance, for pa enjoyed em so.

The automobile that I got that ran around the floor Was lots of fun when it was new, but it won't go no more. Pa wound it up for Uncle Jim to show him how it went, And when those two got through with it the runnin' gear was bent, An' now it doesn't go at all. I mustn't grumble though, 'Cause while it was in shape to run my pa enjoyed it so.

I've got my blocks as good as new, my mitts are perfect yet; Although the snow is on the ground I haven't got em wet. I've taken care of everything that Santa brought to me, Except the toys that run about when wound up with a key. But next year you can bet I won't make any such mistake; I'm going to ask for toys an' things that my pa cannot break.

The Real Successes

You think that the failures are many, You think the successes are few, But you judge by the rule of the penny, And not by the good that men do. You judge men by standards of treasure That merely obtain upon earth, When the brother you're snubbing may measure Full-length to God's standard of worth.

The failures are not in the ditches, The failures are not in the ranks, They have missed the acquirement of riches, Their fortunes are not in the banks. Their virtues are never paraded, Their worth is not always in view, But they're fighting their battles unaided, And fighting them honestly, too.

There are failures to-day in high places The failures aren't all in the low; There are rich men with scorn in their faces Whose homes are but castles of woe. The homes that are happy are many, And numberless fathers are true; And this is the standard, if any, By which we must judge what men do.

Wherever loved ones are awaiting The toiler to kiss and caress, Though in Bradstreet's he hasn't a rating, He still is a splendid success. If the dear ones who gather about him And know what he's striving to do Have never a reason to doubt him, Is he less successful than you?

You think that the failures are many, You judge by men's profits in gold; You judge by the rule of the penny-- In this true success isn't told. This falsely man's story is telling, For wealth often brings on distress, But wherever love brightens a dwelling, There lives; rich or poor, a success.

The Sorry Hostess

She said she was sorry the weather was bad The night that she asked us to dine; And she really appeared inexpressibly sad Because she had hoped 'twould be fine. She was sorry to hear that my wife had a cold, And she almost shed tears over that, And how sorry she was, she most feelingly told, That the steam wasn't on in the flat.

She was sorry she hadn't asked others to come, She might just as well have had eight; She said she was downcast and terribly glum Because her dear husband was late. She apologized then for the home she was in, For the state of the rugs and the chairs, For the children who made such a horrible din, And then for the squeak in the stairs.

When the dinner began she apologized twice For the olives, because they were small; She was certain the celery, too, wasn't nice, And the soup didn't suit her at all. She was sorry she couldn't get whitefish instead Of the trout that the fishmonger sent, But she hoped that we'd manage somehow to be fed, Though her dinner was not what she meant.

She spoke her regrets for the salad, and then Explained she was really much hurt, And begged both our pardons again and again For serving a skimpy dessert. She was sorry for this and sorry for that, Though there really was nothing to blame. But I thought to myself as I put on my hat, Perhaps she is sorry we came.

Yesterday

I've trod the links with many a man, And played him club for club; 'Tis scarce a year since I began And I am still a dub. But this I've noticed as we strayed Along the bunkered way, No one with me has ever played As he did yesterday.

It makes no difference what the drive, Together as we walk, Till we up to the ball arrive, I get the same old talk: "To-day there's something wrong with me, Just what I cannot say.

"Would you believe I got a three For this hole--yesterday?" I see them top and slice a shot, And fail to follow through, And with their brassies plough the lot, The very way I do. To six and seven their figures run, And then they sadly say: "I neither dubbed, nor foozled one When I played--yesterday."

I have no yesterdays to count, No good work to recall; Each morning sees hope proudly mount, Each evening sees it fall. And in the locker room at night, When men discuss their play, I hear them and I wish I might Have seen them--yesterday,

Oh, dear old yesterday! What store Of joys for men you hold! I'm sure there is no day that's more Remembered or extolled. I'm off my task myself a bit, My mind has run astray; I think, perhaps, I should have writ These verses--yesterday.

The Beauty Places

Here she walked and romped about, And here beneath this apple tree Where all the grass is trampled out The swing she loved so used to be. This path is but a path to you, Because my child you never knew.

'Twas here she used to stoop to smell The first bright daffodil of spring; 'Twas here she often tripped and fell And here she heard the robins sing. You'd call this but a common place, But you have never seen her face.

And it was here we used to meet. How beautiful a spot is this, To which she gayly raced to greet Her daddy with his evening kiss! You see here nothing grand or fine, But, Oh, what memories are mine!

The people pass from day to day And never turn their heads to see The many charms along the way That mean so very much to me. For all things here are speaking of The babe that once was mine to love.

The Little Old Man

The little old man with the curve in his back And the eyes that are dim and the skin that is slack, So slack that it wrinkles and rolls on his cheeks, With a thin little voice that goes "crack!" when he speaks, Never goes to the store but that right at his feet Are all of the youngsters who live on the street.

And the little old man in the suit that was black, And once might have perfectly fitted his back, Has a boy's chubby fist in his own wrinkled hand, And together they trudge off to Light-Hearted Land; Some splendid excursions he gives every day To the boys and the girls in his funny old way.

The little old man is as queer as can be; He'd spend all his time with a child on his knee; And the stories he tells I could never repeat, But they're always of good boys and little girls sweet; And the children come home at the end of the day To tell what the little old man had to say.