Chapter 6

It seems to me I'm sitting in that high-backed pew, the while The minister is preaching in that good old-fashioned style; And though I couldn't understand it all somehow I know The Bible was the text book in that church of Long Ago; He didn't preach on politics, but used the word of God, And even now I seem to see the people gravely nod, As though agreeing thoroughly with all he had to say, And then I see them thanking him before they go away.

The little church of Long Ago was not a structure huge, It had no hired singers or no other subterfuge To get the people to attend, 'twas just a simple place Where every Sunday we were told about God's saving grace; No men of wealth were gathered there to help it with a gift; The only worldly thing it had--a mortgage hard to lift. And somehow, dreaming here to-day, I wish that I could know The joy of once more sitting in that church of Long Ago.

Sue's Got a Baby

Sue's got a baby now, an' she Is like her mother used to be; Her face seems prettier, an' her ways More settled-like. In these few days She's changed completely, an' her smile Has taken on the mother-style. Her voice is sweeter, an' her words Are clear as is the song of birds. She still is Sue, but not the same-- She's different since the baby came.

There is a calm upon her face That marks the change that's taken place; It seems as though her eyes now see The wonder things that are to be, An' that her gentle hands now own A gentleness before unknown. Her laughter has a clearer ring Than all the bubbling of a spring, An' in her cheeks love's tender flame Glows brighter since the baby came.

I look at her an' I can see Her mother as she used to be. How sweet she was, an' yet how much She sweetened by the magic touch That made her mother! In her face It seemed the angels left a trace Of Heavenly beauty to remain Where once had been the lines of pain An' with the baby in her arms Enriched her with a thousand charms.

Sue's got a baby now an' she Is prettier than she used to be. A wondrous change has taken place, A softer beauty marks her face An' in the warmth of her caress There seems the touch of holiness, An' all the charms her mother knew Have blossomed once again in Sue. I sit an' watch her an' I claim My lost joys since her baby came.

The Lure That Failed

I know a wonderful land, I said, Where the skies are always blue, Where on chocolate drops are the children fed, And cocoanut cookies, too; Where puppy dogs romp at the children's feet, And the liveliest kittens play, And little tin soldiers guard the street To frighten the bears away.

This land is reached by a wonderful ship That sails on a golden tide; But never a grown-up makes the trip-- It is only a children's ride. And never a cross-patch journeys there, And never a pouting face, For it is the Land of Smiling, where A frown is a big disgrace.

Oh, you board the ship when the sun goes down, And over a gentle sea You slip away from the noisy town To the land of the chocolate tree. And there, till the sun comes over the hill, You frolic and romp and play, And of candy and cake you eat your fill, With no one to tell you "Nay!"

So come! It is time for the ship to go To this wonderful land so fair, And gently the summer breezes blow To carry you safely there. So come! Set sail on this golden sea, To the land that is free from dread! "I know what you mean," she said to me, "An' I don't wanna go to bed."

The Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving

It may be I am getting old and like too much to dwell Upon the days of bygone years, the days I loved so well; But thinking of them now I wish somehow that I could know A simple old Thanksgiving Day, like those of long ago, When all the family gathered round a table richly spread, With little Jamie at the foot and grandpa at the head, The youngest of us all to greet the oldest with a smile, With mother running in and out and laughing all the while.

It may be I'm old-fashioned, but it seems to me to-day We're too much bent on having fun to take the time to pray; Each little family grows up with fashions of its own; It lives within a world itself and wants to be alone. It has its special pleasures, its circle, too, of friends; There are no get-together days; each one his journey wends, Pursuing what he likes the best in his particular way, Letting the others do the same upon Thanksgiving Day.

I like the olden way the best, when relatives were glad To meet the way they used to do when I was but a lad; The old home was a rendezvous for all our kith and kin, And whether living far or near they all came trooping in With shouts of "Hello, daddy!" as they fairly stormed the place And made a rush for mother, who would stop to wipe her face Upon her gingham apron before she kissed them all, Hugging them proudly to her breast, the grownups and the small.

Then laughter rang throughout the home, and, Oh, the jokes they told; From Boston, Frank brought new ones, but father sprang the old; All afternoon we chatted, telling what we hoped to do, The struggles we were making and the hardships we'd gone through; We gathered round the fireside. How fast the hours would fly-- It seemed before we'd settled down 'twas time to say good-bye. Those were the glad Thanksgivings, the old-time families knew When relatives could still be friends and every heart was true.

The Old-Fashioned Pair

'Tis a little old house with a squeak in the stairs, And a porch that seems made for just two easy chairs; In the yard is a group of geraniums red, And a glorious old-fashioned peony bed. Petunias and pansies and larkspurs are there Proclaiming their love for the old-fashioned pair.

Oh, it's hard now to picture the peace of the place! Never lovelier smile lit a fair woman's face Than the smile of the little old lady who sits On the porch through the bright days of summer and knits. And a courtlier manner no prince ever had Than the little old man that she speaks of as "dad."

In that little old house there is nothing of hate; There are old-fashioned things by an old-fashioned grate; On the walls there are pictures of fine looking men And beautiful ladies to look at, and then Time has placed on the mantel to comfort them there The pictures of grandchildren, radiantly fair.

Every part of the house seems to whisper of joy, Save the trinkets that speak of a lost little boy. Yet Time has long since soothed the hurt and the pain, And his glorious memories only remain: The laughter of children the old walls have known, And the joy of it stays, though the babies have flown.

I am fond of that house and that old-fashioned pair And the glorious calm that is hovering there. The riches of life are not silver and gold But fine sons and daughters when we are grown old, And I pray when the years shall have silvered our hair We shall know the delights of that old-fashioned pair.

At Pelletier's

We've been out to Pelletier's Brushing off the stain of years, Quitting all the moods of men And been boys and girls again. We have romped through orchards blazing, Petted ponies gently grazing, Hidden in the hayloft's spaces, And the queerest sort of places That are lost (and it's a pity!) To the youngsters in the city. And the hired men have let us Drive their teams, and stopped to get us Apples from the trees, and lingered While a cow's cool nose we fingered; And they told us all about her And her grandpa who was stouter.

We've been out to Pelletier's Watching horses raise their ears, And their joyous whinnies hearing When the man with oats was nearing. We've been climbing trees an' fences Never minding consequences. And we helped the man to curry The fat ponies' sides so furry. And we saw a squirrel taking Walnuts to the nest he's making, Storing them for winter, when he Can't get out to hunt for any. And we watched the turkeys, growing Big and fat and never knowing That the reason they were living Is to die for our Thanksgiving.

We've been out to Pelletier's, Brushing off the stain of years. We were kids set free from shamming And the city's awful cramming, And the clamor and the bustle And the fearful rush and hustle-- Out of doors with room to race in And broad acres soft to chase in. We just stretched our souls and let them Drop the petty cares that fret them, Left our narrow thoughts behind us, Loosed the selfish traits that bind us And were wholesomer and plainer Simpler, kinder folks and saner, And at night said: "It's a pity Mortals ever built a city."

At Christmas

A man is at his finest towards the finish of the year; He is almost what he should be when the Christmas season's here; Then he's thinking more of others than be's thought the months before, And the laughter of his children is a joy worth toiling for. He is less a selfish creature than at any other time; When the Christmas spirit rules him he comes close to the sublime.

When it's Christmas man is bigger and is better in his part; He is keener for the service that is prompted by the heart. All the petty thoughts and narrow seem to vanish for awhile And the true reward he's seeking is the glory of a smile. Then for others he is toiling and somehow it seems to me That at Christmas he is almost what God wanted him to be.

If I had to paint a picture of a man I think I'd wait Till he'd fought his selfish battles and had put aside his hate. I'd not catch him at his labors when his thoughts are all of pelf, On the long days and the dreary when he's striving for himself. I'd not take him when he's sneering, when he's scornful or depressed, But I'd look for him at Christmas when he's shining at his best.

Man is ever in a struggle and he's oft misunderstood; There are days the worst that's in him is the master of the good, But at Christmas kindness rules him and he puts himself aside And his petty hates are vanquished and his heart is opened wide. Oh, I don't know how to say it, but somehow it seems to me That at Christmas man is almost what God sent him here to be.

The Little Army

Little women, little men, Childhood never comes again. Live it gayly while you may; Give your baby souls to play; March to sound of stick and pan, In your paper hats, and tramp just as bravely as you can To your pleasant little camp. Wooden sword and wooden gun Make a battle splendid fun. Fine the victories you win Dimpled cheek and dimpled chin.

Little women, little men, Hearts are light when years are ten; Eyes are bright and cheeks are red When life's cares lie all ahead. Drums make merry music when They are leading children out; Trumpet calls are cheerful then, Glorious is the battle shout. Little soldiers, single file, Uniformed in grin and smile, Conquer every foe they meet Up and down the gentle street.

Little women, little men, Would that youth could come again! Would that I might fall in line As a little boy of nine, But with broomstick for a gun, And with paper hat that I Bravely wore back there for fun, Never more may I defy Foes that deep in ambush kneel-- Now my warfare's grim and real. I that once was brave and bold, Now am battered, bruised and old.

Little women, little men, Planning to attack my den, Little do you know the joy That you give a worn-out boy As he hears your gentle feet Pitter-patting in the hall; Gladly does he wait to meet Conquest by a troop so small. Dimpled cheek and dimpled chin, You have but to smile to win. Come and take him where he stays Dreaming of his by-gone days.

Who Is Your Boss?

"I work for someone else," he said; "I have no chance to get ahead. At night I leave the job behind; At morn I face the same old grind. And everything I do by day Just brings to me the same old pay. While I am here I cannot see The semblance of a chance for me."

I asked another how he viewed The occupation he pursued. "It's dull and dreary toil," said he, "And brings but small reward to me. My boss gets all the profits fine That I believe are rightly mine. My life's monotonously grim Because I'm forced to work for him."

I stopped a third young man to ask His attitude towards his task. A cheerful smile lit up his face; "I shan't be always in this place," He said, "because some distant day A better job will come my way." "Your boss?" I asked, and answered he: "I'm going to make him notice me.

"He pays me wages and in turn That money I am here to earn, But I don't work for him alone; Allegiance to myself I own. I do not do my best because It gets me favors or applause-- I work for him, but I can see That actually I work for me.

"It looks like business good to me The best clerk on the staff to be. If customers approve my style And like my manner and my smile I help the firm to get the pelf, But what is more I help myself. From one big thought I'm never free: That every day I work for me."

Oh, youth, thought I, you're bound to climb The ladder of success in time. Too many self-impose the cross Of daily working for a boss, Forgetting that in failing him It is their own stars that they dim. And when real service they refuse They are the ones who really lose.

The Truth About Envy

I like to see the flowers grow, To see the pansies in a row; I think a well-kept garden's fine, And wish that such a one were mine; But one can't have a stock of flowers Unless he digs and digs for hours.

My ground is always bleak and bare; The roses do not flourish there. And where I once sowed poppy seeds Is now a tangled mass of weeds.' I'm fond of flowers, but admit, For digging I don't care a bit.

I envy men whose yards are gay, But never work as hard as they; I also envy men who own More wealth than I have ever known. I'm like a lot of men who yearn For joys that they refuse to earn.

You cannot have the joys of work And take the comfort of a shirk. I find the man I envy most Is he who's longest at his post. I could have gold and roses, too, If I would work like those who do.

Living

If through the years we're not to do Much finer deeds than we have done; If we must merely wander through Time's garden, idling in the sun; If there is nothing big ahead, Why do we fear to join the dead?

Unless to-morrow means that we Shall do some needed service here; That tasks are waiting you and me That will be lost, save we appear; Then why this dreadful thought of sorrow That we may never see to-morrow?

If all our finest deeds are done, And all our splendor's in the past; If there's no battle to be won, What matter if to-day's our last? Is life so sweet that we would live Though nothing back to life we give?

It is not greatness to have clung To life through eighty fruitless years; The man who dies in action, young, Deserves our praises and our cheers, Who ventures all for one great deed And gives his life to serve life's need.

On Being Broke

Don't mind being broke at all, When I can say that what I had Was spent for toys for kiddies small And that the spending made 'em glad. I don't regret the money gone, If happiness it left behind. An empty purse I'll look upon Contented, if its record's kind. There's no disgrace in being broke, Unless it's due to flying high; Though poverty is not a joke, The only thing that counts is "why?"

The dollars come to me and go; To-day I've eight or ten to spend; To-morrow I'll be sailing low, And have to lean upon a friend. But if that little bunch of mine Is richer by some toy or frill, I'll face the world and never whine Because I lack a dollar bill. I'm satisfied, if I can see One smile that hadn't bloomed before. The only thing that counts with me Is what I've spent my money for.

I might regret my sorry plight, If selfishness brought it about; If for the fun I had last night, Some joy they'd have to go without. But if I've swapped my bit of gold, For laughter and a happier pack Of youngsters in my little fold I'll never wish those dollars back. If I have traded coin for things They needed and have left them glad, Then being broke no sorrow brings-- I've done my best with what I had.

The Broken Drum

There is sorrow in the household; There's a grief too hard to bear; There's a little cheek that's tear-stained There's a sobbing baby there. And try how we will to comfort, Still the tiny teardrops come; For, to solve a vexing problem, Curly Locks has wrecked his drum.

It had puzzled him and worried, How the drum created sound; For he couldn't understand it It was not enough to pound With his tiny hands and drumsticks, And at last the day has come, When another hope is shattered; Now in ruins lies his drum.

With his metal bank he broke it, Tore the tightened skin aside, Gazed on vacant space bewildered, Then he broke right down and cried. For the broken bubble shocked him And the baby tears must come; Now a joy has gone forever: Curly Locks has wrecked his drum.

While his mother tries to soothe him, I am sitting here alone; In the life that lies behind me; Many shocks like that I've known. And the boy who's upstairs weeping, In the years that are to come Will learn that many pleasures Are as empty as his drum.

Mother's Excuses

Mother for me made excuses When I was a little tad; Found some reason for my conduct When it had been very bad. Blamed it on a recent illness Or my nervousness and told Father to be easy with me Every time he had to scold.

And I knew, as well as any Roguish, healthy lad of ten, Mother really wasn't telling Truthful things to father then. I knew I deserved the whipping, Knew that I'd been very bad, Knew that mother knew it also When she intervened with dad.

I knew that my recent illness Hadn't anything to do With the mischief I'd been up to, And I knew that mother knew. But remembering my fever And my nervous temperament, Father put away the shingle And postponed the sad event.

Now his mother, when I threaten Punishment for this and that, Calls to mind the dreary night hours When beside his bed we sat. Comes and tells me that he's nervous, That's the reason he was bad, And the boy and doting mother Put it over on the dad.

Some day when he's grown as I am, With a boy on mischief bent, He will hear the timeworn story Of the nervous temperament. And remembering the shingle That aside I always threw, All I hope is that he'll let them Put it over on him, too.

As It Is

I might wish the world were better, I might sit around and sigh For a water that is wetter And a bluer sort of sky. There are times I think the weather Could be much improved upon, But when taken altogether It's a good old world we're on. I might tell how I would make it, But when I have had my say It is still my job to take it As it is, from day to day.

I might wish that men were kinder, And less eager after gold; I might wish that they were blinder To the faults they now behold. And I'd try to make them gentle, And more tolerant in strife And a bit more sentimental O'er the finer things of life. But I am not here to make them, Or to work in human clay; It is just my work to take them As they are from day to day.

Here's a world that suffers sorrow, Here are bitterness and pain, And the joy we plan to-morrow May be ruined by the rain. Here are hate and greed and badness, Here are love and friendship, too, But the most of it is gladness When at last we've run it through. Could we only understand it As we shall some distant day We should see that He who planned it Knew our needs along the way.

A Boy's Tribute