Chapter 5

I like 'em, in the winter when their cheeks are slightly pale, I like 'em in the spring time when the March winds blow a gale; But when summer suns have tanned 'em and they're racing to and fro, I somehow think the children make the finest sort of show.

When they're brown as little berries and they're bare of foot and head, And they're on the go each minute where the velvet lawns are spread, Then their health is at its finest and they never stop to rest, Oh, it's then I think the children look and are their very best.

We've got to know the winter and we've got to know the spring, But for children, could I do it, unto summer I would cling; For I'm happiest when I see 'em, as a wild and merry band Of healthy, lusty youngsters that the summer sun has tanned.

October

Days are gettin' shorter an' the air a keener snap; Apples now are droppin' into Mother Nature's lap; The mist at dusk is risin' over valley, marsh an' fen An' it's just as plain as sunshine, winter's comin' on again.

The turkeys now are struttin' round the old farmhouse once more; They are done with all their nestin', and their hatchin' days are o'er; Now the farmer's cuttin' fodder for the silo towerin' high An' he's frettin' an' complainin' 'cause the corn's a bit too dry.

But the air is mighty peaceful an' the scene is good to see, An' there's somethin' in October that stirs deep inside o' me; An' I just can't help believin' in a God above us, when Everything is ripe for harvest an the frost is back again.

On Quitting

How much grit do you think you've got? Can you quit a thing that you like a lot? You may talk of pluck; it's an easy word, And where'er you go it is often heard; But can you tell to a jot or guess Just how much courage you now possess?

You may stand to trouble and keep your grin, But have you tackled self-discipline? Have you ever issued commands to you To quit the things that you like to do, And then, when tempted and sorely swayed, Those rigid orders have you obeyed?

Don't boast of your grit till you've tried it out, Nor prate to men of your courage stout, For it's easy enough to retain a grin In the face of a fight there's a chance to win, But the sort of grit that is good to own Is the stuff you need when you're all alone.

How much grit do you think you've got? Can you turn from joys that you like a lot? Have you ever tested yourself to know How far with yourself your will can go? If you want to know if you have grit, Just pick out a joy that you like, and quit.

It's bully sport and it's open fight; It will keep you busy both day and night; For the toughest kind of a game you'll find Is to make your body obey your mind. And you never will know what is meant by grit Unless there's something you've tried to quit.

The Price of Riches

Nobody stops at the rich man's door to pass the time of day. Nobody shouts a "hello!" to him in the good old-fashioned way. Nobody comes to his porch at night and sits in that extra chair And talks till it's time to go to bed. He's all by himself up there.

Nobody just happens in to call on the long, cold winter nights. Nobody feels that he's welcome now, though the house is ablaze with lights. And never an unexpected guest will tap at his massive door And stay to tea as he used to do, for his neighborly days are o'er.

It's a distant life that the rich man leads and many an hour is glum, For never the neighbors call on him save when they are asked to come. At heart he is just as he used to be and he longs for his friends of old, But they never will venture unbidden there. They're afraid of his wall of gold.

For silver and gold in a large amount there's a price that all men must pay, And who will dwell in a rich man's house must live in a lonely way. For once you have builded a fortune vast you will sigh for the friends you knew But never they'll tap at your door again in the way that they used to do.

The Other Fellow

Whose luck is better far than ours? The other fellow's. Whose road seems always lined with flowers? The other fellow's. Who is the man who seems to get Most joy in life, with least regret, Who always seems to win his bet? The other fellow.

Who fills the place we think we'd like? The other fellow. Whom does good fortune always strike? The other fellow. Whom do we envy, day by day? Who has more time than we to play? Who is it, when we mourn, seems gay? The other fellow.

Who seems to miss the thorns we find? The other fellow. Who seems to leave us all behind? The other fellow. Who never seems to feel the woe, The anguish and the pain we know? Who gets the best seats at the show? The other fellow.

And yet, my friend, who envies you? The other fellow. Who thinks he gathers only rue? The other fellow. Who sighs because he thinks that he Would infinitely happier he, If he could be like you or me? The other fellow.

The Open Fire

There in the flame of the open grate, All that is good in the past I see: Red-lipped youth on the swinging gate, Bright-eyed youth with its minstrelsy; Girls and boys that I used to know, Back in the days of Long Ago, Troop before in the smoke and flame, Chatter and sing, as the wild birds do. Everyone I can call by name, For the fire builds all of my youth anew.

Outside, people go stamping by, Squeak of wheel on the evening air, Stars and planets race through the sky, Here are darkness and silence rare; Only the flames in the open grate Crackle and flare as they burn up hate, Malice and envy and greed for gold, Dancing, laughing my cares away; I've forgotten that I am old, Once again I'm a boy at play.

There in the flame of the open grate Bright the pictures come and go; Lovers swing on the garden gate, Lovers kiss 'neath the mistletoe. I've forgotten that I am old, I've forgotten my story's told; Whistling boy down the lane I stroll, All untouched by the blows of fate, Time turns back and I'm young of soul, Dreaming there by the open grate.

Improvement

The joy of life is living it, or so it seems to me; In finding shackles on your wrists, then struggling till you're free; In seeing wrongs and righting them, in dreaming splendid dreams, Then toiling till the vision is as real as moving streams. The happiest mortal on the earth is he who ends his day By leaving better than he found to bloom along the way.

Were all things perfect here there would be naught for man to do; If what is old were good enough we'd never need the new. The only happy time of rest is that which follows strife And sees some contribution made unto the joy of life. And he who has oppression felt and conquered it is he Who really knows the happiness and peace of being free.

The miseries of earth are here and with them all must cope. Who seeks for joy, through hedges thick of care and pain must grope. Through disappointment man must go to value pleasure's thrill; To really know the joy of health a man must first be ill. The wrongs are here for man to right, and happiness is had By striving to supplant with good the evil and the bad.

The joy of life is living it and doing things of worth, In making bright and fruitful all the barren spots of earth. In facing odds and mastering them and rising from defeat, And making true what once was false, and what was bitter, sweet. For only he knows perfect joy whose little bit of soil Is richer ground than what it was when he began to toil.

Send Her a Valentine

Send her a valentine to say You love her in the same old way. Just drop the long familiar ways And live again the old-time days When love was new and youth was bright And all was laughter and delight, And treat her as you would if she Were still the girl that used to be.

Pretend that all the years have passed Without one cold and wintry blast; That you are coming still to woo Your sweetheart as you used to do; Forget that you have walked along The paths of life where right and wrong And joy and grief in battle are, And play the heart without a scar.

Be what you were when youth was fine And send to her a valentine; Forget the burdens and the woe That have been given you to know And to the wife, so fond and true, The pledges of the past renew 'Twill cure her life of every ill To find that you're her sweetheart still.

Bud

Who is it lives to the full every minute, Gets all the joy and the fun that is in it? Tough as they make 'em, and ready to race, Fit for a battle and fit for a chase, Heedless of buttons on blouses and pants, Laughing at danger and taking a chance, Gladdest, it seems, when he wallows in mud, Who is the rascal? I'll tell you, it's Bud!

Who is it wakes with a shout of delight, And comes to our room with a smile that is bright? Who is it springs into bed with a leap And thinks it is queer that his dad wants to sleep? Who answers his growling with laughter and tries His patience by lifting the lids of his eyes? Who jumps in the air and then lands with a thud On his poor daddy's stomach? I'll tell you, it's Bud!

Who is it thinks life is but laughter and play And doesn't know care is a part of the day? Who is reckless of stockings and heedless of shoes? Who laughs at a tumble and grins at a bruise? Who climbs over fences and clambers up trees, And scrapes all the skin off his shins and his knees? Who sometimes comes home all bespattered with blood That was drawn by a fall? It's that rascal called Bud.

Yet, who is it makes all our toiling worth while? Who can cure every ache that we know, by his smile? Who is prince to his mother and king to his dad And makes us forget that we ever were sad? Who is center of all that we dream of and plan, Our baby to-day but to-morrow our man? It's that tough little, rough little tyke in the mud, That tousled-haired, fun-loving rascal called Bud!

The Front Seat

When I was but a little lad I always liked to ride, No matter what the rig we had, right by the driver's side. The front seat was the honor place in bob-sleigh, coach or hack, And I maneuvered to avoid the cushions in the back. We children used to scramble then to share the driver's seat, And long the pout I wore when I was not allowed that treat. Though times have changed and I am old I still confess I race With other grown-ups now and then to get my favorite place.

The auto with its cushions fine and big and easy springs Has altered in our daily lives innumerable things, But hearts of men are still the same as what they used to be, When surreys were the stylish rigs, or so they seem to me, For every grown-up girl to-day and every grown-up boy Still hungers for the seat in front and scrambles for its joy, And riding by the driver's side still holds the charm it did In those glad, youthful days gone by when I was just a kid.

I hurry, as I used to do, to claim that favorite place, And when a tonneau seat is mine I wear a solemn face. I try to hide the pout I feel, and do my best to smile, But envy of the man in front gnaws at me all the while. I want to be where I can see the road that lies ahead, To watch the trees go flying by and see the country spread Before me as we spin along, for there I miss the fear That seems to grip the soul of me while riding in the rear.

And I am not alone in this. To-day I drive a car And three glad youngsters madly strive to share the "seat with Pa." And older folks that ride with us, I very plainly see, Maneuver in their artful ways to sit in front with me; Though all the cushions in the world were piled up in the rear, The child in all of us still longs to watch the engineer. And happier hearts we seem to own when we're allowed to ride, No matter what the car may be, close by the driver's side.

There Are No Gods

There are no gods that bring to youth The rich rewards that stalwarts claim; The god of fortune is in truth A vision and an empty name. The toiler who through doubt and care Unto his goal and victory plods, With no one need his glory share: He is himself his favoring gods.

There are no gods that will bestow Earth's joys and blessings on a man. Each one must choose the path he'll go, Then win from it what joy he can. And he that battles with the odds Shall know success, but he who waits The favors of the mystic gods, Shall never come to glory's gates.

No man is greater than his will; No gods to him will lend a hand! Upon his courage and his skill The record of his life must stand. What honors shall befall to him, What he shall claim of fame or pelf, Depend not on the favoring whim Of fortune's god, but on himself.

The Auto

An auto is a helpful thing; I love the way the motor hums, I love each cushion and each spring, The way it goes, the way it comes; It saves me many a dreary mile, It brings me quickly to the smile Of those at home, and every day It adds unto my time for play.

It keeps me with my friends in touch; No journey now appears too much To make with meetings at the end: It gives me time to be a friend. It laughs at distance, and has power To lengthen every fleeting hour. It bears me into country new That otherwise I'd never view.

It's swift and sturdy and it strives To fill with happiness our lives; When for the doctor we've a need It brings him to our door with speed. It saves us hours of anxious care And heavy heartache and despair. It has its faults, but still I sing: The auto is a helpful thing.

The Handy Man

The handy man about the house Is old and bent and gray; Each morning in the yard he toils, Where all the children play; Some new task every day he finds, Some task he loves to do, The handy man about the house, Whose work is never through.

The children stand to see him toil, And watch him mend a chair; They bring their broken toys to him He keeps them in repair. No idle moment Grandpa spends, But finds some work to do, And hums a snatch of some old song, That in his youth he knew.

He builds with wood most wondrous things: A table for the den, A music rack to please the girls, A gun case for the men. And 'midst his paints and tools he smiles, And seems as young and gay As any of the little ones Who round him run in play.

I stopped to speak with him awhile; "Oh, tell me, Grandpa, pray," I said, "why do you work so hard Throughout the livelong day? Your hair is gray, your back is bent, With weight of years oppressed; This is the evening of your life-- Why don't you sit and rest?"

"Ah, no," the old man answered me, "Although I'm old and gray, I like to work out here where I Can watch the children play. The old have tasks that they must do; The greatest of my joys Is working on this shaded porch, And mending children's toys."

And as I wandered on, I thought, Oh, shall I lonely be When time has powdered white my hair, And left his mark on me? Will little children round me play, Shall I have work to do? Or shall I be, when age is mine, Lonely and useless too?

The New Days

The old days, the old days, how oft the poets sing, The days of hope at dewy morn, the days of early spring, The days when every mead was fair, and every heart was true, And every maiden wore a smile, and every sky was blue The days when dreams were golden and every night brought rest, The old, old days of youth and love, the days they say were best But I--I sing the new days, the days that lie before, The days of hope and fancy, the days that I adore.

The new days, the new days, the selfsame days they are; The selfsame sunshine heralds them, the selfsame evening star Shines out to light them on their way unto the Bygone Land, And with the selfsame arch of blue the world to-day is spanned. The new days, the new days, when friends are just as true, And maidens smile upon us all, the way they used to do, Dreams we know are golden dreams, hope springs in every breast; It cheers us in the dewy morn and soothes us when we rest.

The new days, the new days, of them I want to sing, The new days with the fancies and the golden dreams they bring; The old days had their pleasures, but likewise have the new The gardens with their roses and the meadows bright with dew; We love to-day the selfsame way they loved in days of old; The world is bathed in beauty and it isn't growing cold; There's joy for us a-plenty, there are tasks for us to do, And life is worth the living, for the friends we know are true.

The Call

Joy stands on the hilltops, Beckoning to me, Urging me to journey Up where I can see Blue skies ever smiling, Cool green fields below, Hear the songs of children Still untouched by woe.

Joy stands on the hilltops, Urging me to stay, Spite of toil and trouble, To life's rugged way, Holding out a promise Of a life serene When the steeps I've mastered Lying now between.

Joy stands on the hilltops, Smiling down at me, Urging me to clamber Up where I can see Over toil and trouble Far beyond despair, And I answer smiling: Some day I'll be there.

Songs of Rejoicing

Songs of rejoicin', Of love and of cheer, Are the songs that I'm yearnin' for Year after year. The songs about children Who laugh in their glee Are the songs worth the singin', The bright songs for me.

Songs of rejoicin', Of kisses and love, Of faith in the Father, Who sends from above The sunbeams to scatter The gloom and the fear; These songs worth the singin', The songs of good cheer.

Songs of rejoicin', Oh, sing them again, The brave songs of courage Appealing to men. Of hope in the future Of heaven the goal; The songs of rejoicin' That strengthen the soul.

Another Mouth to Feed

We've got another mouth to feed, From out our little store; To satisfy another's need Is now my daily chore. A growing family is ours, Beyond the slightest doubt; It takes all my financial powers To keep them looking stout. With us another makes his bow To breakfast, dine and sup; Our little circle's larger now, For Buddy's got a pup.

If I am frayed about the heels And both my elbows shine And if my overcoat reveals The poverty that's mine, 'Tis not because I squander gold In folly's reckless way; The cost of foodstuffs, be it told, Takes all my weekly pay. 'Tis putting food on empty plates That eats my wages up; And now another mouth awaits, For Buddy's got a pup.

And yet I gladly stand the strain, And count the task worth while, Nor will I dismally complain While Buddy wears a smile. What's one mouth more at any board Though costly be the fare? The poorest of us can afford His frugal meal to share. And so bring on the extra plate, He will not need a cup, And gladly will I pay the freight Now Buddy's got a pup.

The Little Church

The little church of Long Ago, where as a boy I sat With mother in the family pew and fumbled with my hat-- How I would like to see it now the way I saw it then, The straight-backed pews, the pulpit high, the women and the men Dressed stiffly in their Sunday clothes and solemnly devout, Who closed their eyes when prayers were said and never looked about-- That little church of Long Ago, it wasn't grand to see, But even as a little boy it meant a lot to me.

The choir loft where father sang comes back to me again; I hear his tenor voice once more the way I heard it when The deacons used to pass the plate, and once again I see The people fumbling for their coins, as glad as they could be To drop their quarters on the plate, and I'm a boy once more With my two pennies in my fist that mother gave before We left the house, and once again I'm reaching out to try To drop them on the plate before the deacon passes by.