Chapter 7

Prettiest girl I've ever seen Is Ma. Lovelier than any queen Is Ma. Girls with curls go walking by, Dainty, graceful, bold an' shy, But the one that takes my eye Is Ma.

Every girl made into one Is Ma. Sweetest girl to look upon Is Ma. Seen 'em short and seen 'em tall, Seen 'em big and seen 'em small, But the finest one of all Is Ma.

Best of all the girls on earth Is Ma. One that all the rest is worth Is Ma. Some have beauty, some have grace, Some look nice in silk and lace, But the one that takes first place Is Ma.

Sweetest singer in the land is Ma. She that has the softest hand Is Ma. Tenderest, gentlest nurse is she, Full of fun as she can be, An' the only girl for me Is Ma.

Bet if there's an angel here It's Ma.' if God has a sweetheart dear, It's Ma. Take the girls that artists draw, An' all the girls I ever saw, The only one without a flaw Is Ma.

Up to the Ceiling

Up to the ceiling And down to the floor, Hear him now squealing And calling for more. Laughing and shouting, "Away up!" he cries. Who could be doubting The love in his eyes. Heigho! my baby! And heigho! my son! Up to the ceiling Is wonderful fun.

Bigger than daddy And bigger than mother; Only a laddie, But bigger than brother. Laughing and crowing And squirming and wriggling, Cheeks fairly glowing, Now cooing and giggling! Down to the cellar, Then quick as a dart Up to the ceiling Brings joy to the heart.

Gone is the hurry, The anguish and sting, The heartache and worry That business cares bring; Gone is the hustle, The clamor for gold, The rush and the bustle The day's affairs hold. Peace comes to the battered Old heart of his dad, When "up to the ceiling" He plays with his lad.

Thanksgiving

Gettin' together to smile an' rejoice, An' eatin' an' laughin' with folks of your choice; An' kissin' the girls an' declarin' that they Are growin more beautiful day after day; Chattin' an' braggin' a bit with the men, Buildin' the old family circle again; Livin' the wholesome an' old-fashioned cheer, Just for awhile at the end of the year.

Greetings fly fast as we crowd through the door And under the old roof we gather once more Just as we did when the youngsters were small; Mother's a little bit grayer, that's all. Father's a little bit older, but still Ready to romp an' to laugh with a will. Here we are back at the table again Tellin' our stories as women an men.

Bowed are our heads for a moment in prayer; Oh, but we're grateful an' glad to be there. Home from the east land an' home from the west, Home with the folks that are dearest an' best. Out of the sham of the cities afar We've come for a time to be just what we are. Here we can talk of ourselves an' be frank, Forgettin' position an' station an' rank.

Give me the end of the year an' its fun When most of the plannin' an' toilin' is done; Bring all the wanderers home to the nest, Let me sit down with the ones I love best, Hear the old voices still ringin' with song, See the old faces unblemished by wrong, See the old table with all of its chairs An I'll put soul in my Thanksgivin' prayers.

The Boy Soldier

Each evening on my lap there climbs A little boy of three, And with his dimpled, chubby fists He pounds me shamefully. He gives my beard a vicious tug, He bravely pulls my nose; And then he tussles with my hair And then explores my clothes.

He throws my pencils on the floor My watch is his delight; He never seems to think that I Have any private right. And though he breaks my good cigars, With all his cunning art, He works a greater ruin, far, Deep down within my heart.

This roguish little tyke who sits Each night upon my knee, And hammers at his poor old dad, Is bound to conquer me. He little knows that long ago, He forced the gates apart, And marched triumphantly into The city of my heart.

Some day perhaps, in years to come, When he is older grown, He, too, will be assailed as I, By youngsters of his own. And when at last a little lad Gives battle on his knee, I know that he'll be captured, too, Just as he captured me.

My Land

My land is where the kind folks are, And where the friends are true, Where comrades brave will travel far Some kindly deed to do. My land is where the smiles are bright And where the speech is sweet, And where men cling to what is right Regardless of defeat.

My land is where the starry flag Gleams brightly in the sun; The land of rugged mountain crag, The land where rivers run, Where cheeks are tanned and hearts are bold And women fair to see, And all is not a strife for gold-- That land is home to me.

My land is where the children play, And where the roses bloom, And where to break the peaceful day No flaming cannons boom. My land's the land of honest toil, Of laughter, dance and song, Where harvests crown the fertile soil And thoughtful are the strong.

My land's the land of many creeds And tolerance for all It is the land of 'splendid deeds Where men are seldom small. And though the world should bid me roam, Its distant scenes to see, My land would keep my heart at home And there I'd always be.

Daddies

I would rather be the daddy Of a romping, roguish crew, Of a bright-eyed chubby laddie And a little girl or two, Than the monarch of a nation In his high and lofty seat Taking empty adoration From the subjects at his feet.

I would rather own their kisses As at night to me they run, Than to be the king who misses All the simpler forms of fun. When his dreary day is ending He is dismally alone, But when my sun is descending There are joys for me to own.

He may ride to horns and drumming; I must walk a quiet street, But when once they see me coming Then on joyous, flying feet They come racing to me madly And I catch them with a swing And I say it proudly, gladly, That I'm happier than a king.

You may talk of lofty places, You may boast of pomp and power, Men may turn their eager faces To the glory of an hour, But give me the humble station With its joys that long survive, For the daddies of the nation Are the happiest men alive.

Loafing

Under the shade of trees, Flat on my back at ease, Lulled by the hum of bees, There's where I rest; Breathing the scented air, Lazily loafing there, Never a thought of care, Peace in my breast.

There where the waters run, Laughing along in fun, I go when work is done, There's where I stray; Couch of a downy green, Restful and sweet and clean, Set in a fairy scene, Wondrously gay.

Worn out with toil and strife, Sick of the din of life, With pain and sorrow rife, There's where I go; Soothing and sweet I find, Comforts that ease the mind, Leaving dull care behind, Rest there I know.

Flat on my back I lie, Watching the ships go by, Under the fleecy sky, Day dreaming there; From grief I find surcease, From worry gain release, Resting in perfect peace, Free from all care.

When Father Played Baseball

The smell of arnica is strong, And mother's time is spent In rubbing father's arms and back With burning liniment. The house is like a druggist's shop; Strong odors fill the hall, And day and night we hear him groan, Since father played baseball.

He's forty past, but he declared That he was young as ever; And in his youth, he said, he was A baseball player clever. So when the business men arranged A game, they came to call On dad and asked him if he thought That he could play baseball.

"I haven't played in fifteen years," Said father, "but I know That I can stop the grounders hot, And I can make the throw. I used to play a corking game; The curves, I know them all; And you can count on me, you bet, To join your game of ball."

On Saturday the game was played, And all of us were there; Dad borrowed an old uniform, That Casey used to wear. He paid three dollars for a glove, Wore spikes to save a fall He had the make-up on all right, When father played baseball.

At second base they stationed him; A liner came his way; Dad tried to stop it with his knee, And missed a double play. He threw into the bleachers twice, He let a pop fly fall; Oh, we were all ashamed of him, When father played baseball.

He tried to run, but tripped and fell, He tried to take a throw; It put three fingers out of joint, And father let it go. He stopped a grounder with his face; Was spiked, nor was that all; It looked to us like suicide, When father played baseball.

At last he limped away, and now He suffers in disgrace; His arms are bathed in liniment; Court plaster hides his face. He says his back is breaking, and His legs won't move at all; It made a wreck of father when He tried to play baseball.

The smell of arnica abounds; He hobbles with a cane; A row of blisters mar his hands; He is in constant pain. But lame and weak as father is, He swears he'll lick us all If we dare even speak about The day he played baseball.

About Boys

Show me the boy who never threw A stone at someone's cat; Or never hurled a snowball swift At someone's high silk hat. Who never ran away from school, To seek the swimming hole; Or slyly from a neighbor's yard Green apples never stole. Show me the boy who never broke A pane of window glass; Who never disobeyed the sign That says: "Keep off the grass." Who never did a thousand things, That grieve us sore to tell; And I'll show you a little boy Who must be far from well.

Curly Locks

Curly locks, what do you know of the world, And what do your brown eyes see? Has your baby mind been able to find One thread of the mystery? Do you know of the sorrow and pain that lie In the realms that you've never seen? Have you even guessed of the great unrest In the world where you've never been?

Curly locks, what do you know of the world And what do you see in the skies? When you solemnly stare at the world out there Can you see where the future lies? What wonderful thoughts are you thinking now? Can it be that you really know That beyond your youth there are joy and ruth, On the way that you soon must go?

Baby's Got a Tooth

The telephone rang in my office to-day, as it often has tinkled before. I turned in my chair in a half-grouchy way, for a telephone call is a bore; And I thought, "It is somebody wanting to know the distance from here to Pekin." In a tone that was gruff I shouted "Hello," a sign for the talk to begin. "What is it?" I asked in a terrible way. I was huffy, to tell you the truth, Then over the wire I heard my wife say: "The baby, my dear, has a tooth!"

I have seen a man jump when the horse that he backed finished first in a well-driven race. I have heard the man cheer, as a matter of fact, and I've seen the blood rush to his face; I've been on the spot when good news has come in and I've witnessed expressions of glee That range from a yell to a tilt of the chin; and some things have happened to me That have thrilled me with joy from my toes to my head, but never from earliest youth Have I jumped with delight as I did when she said, "The baby, my dear, has a tooth."

I have answered the telephone thousands of times for messages both good and bad; I've received the reports of most horrible crimes, and news that was cheerful or sad; I've been telephoned this and been telephoned that, a joke, or an errand to run; I've been called to the phone for the idlest of chat, when there was much work to be done; But never before have I realized quite the thrill of a message, forsooth, Till over the wire came these words that I write, "The baby, my dear, has a tooth."

Home and the Baby

Home was never home before, Till the baby came. Love no golden jewels wore, Till the baby came. There was joy, but now it seems Dreams were not the rosy dreams, Sunbeams not such golden beams-- Till the baby came.

Home was never really gay, Till the baby came. I'd forgotten how to play, Till the baby came. Smiles were never half so bright, Troubles never half so light, Worry never took to flight, Till the baby came.

Home was never half so blest, Till the baby came. Lacking something that was best, Till the baby came. Kisses were not half so sweet, Love not really so complete, Joy had never found our street Till the baby came.

The Fisherman

Along a stream that raced and ran Through tangled trees and over stones, That long had heard the pipes o' Pan And shared the joys that nature owns, I met a fellow fisherman, Who greeted me in cheerful tones.

The lines of care were on his face. I guessed that he had buried dead; Had run for gold full many a race, And kept great problems in his head, But in that gentle resting place No word of wealth or fame he said.

He showed me trout that he had caught And praised the larger ones of mine; Told me how that big beauty fought And almost broke his silken line; Spoke of the trees and sky, and thought Them proof of life and power divine.

There man to man we talked of trees And birds, as people talk of men; Discussed the busy ways of bees Wondered what lies beyond our ken; Where is the land no mortal sees, And shall we come this way again.

"Out here," he told me, with a smile, "Away from all the city's sham, The strife for splendor and for style, The ticker and the telegram I come for just a little while To be exactly as I am."

Foes think the bad in him they've guessed And prate about the wrong they scan; Friends that have seen him at his best Believe they know his every plan; I know him better than the rest, I know him as a fisherman.

The March of Mortality

Over the hills of time to the valley of endless years; Over the roads of woe to the land that is free from tears Up from the haunts of men to the place where the angels are, This is the march of mortality to a wonderful goal afar.

Troopers we are in life, warring at times with wrong, But promised ever unbroken rest at last in a land of song; And whether we serve or rule, and whether we fall or rise, We shall come, in time, to that golden vale where never the spirit dies.

Back of the strife for gain, and under the toil for fame, The dreams of men in this mortal march have ever remained the same. They have lived through their days and years for the great rewards to be, When earth's dusty garb shall be laid aside for the robes of eternity.

This is the march of mortality, whatever man's race or creed, And whether he's one of the savage tribe or one of a higher breed, He is conscious dimly of better things that were promised him long ago, And he keeps his place in the line with men for the joys that his soul shall know.

Growing Down

Time was I thought of growing up, But that was ere the babies came; I'd dream and plan to be a man And win my share of wealth and fame, For age held all the splendors then And wisdom seemed lifes brightest crown For mortal brow. It's different now. Each evening finds me growing down.

I'm not so keen for growing up To wrinkled cheek and heavy tongue, And sluggish blood; with little Bud I long to be a comrade young. His sports are joys I want to share, His games are games I want to play, An old man grim's no chum for him And so I'm growing down to-day.

I'm back to marbles and to tops, To flying kites and one-ol'-cat; "Fan acres!" I now loudly cry; I also take my turn at bat; I've had my fling at growing up And want no old man's fair renown. To be a boy is finer joy, And so I've started growing down.

Once more I'm learning games I knew When I was four and five and six, I'm going back along life's track To find the same old-fashioned tricks, And happy are the hours we spend Together, without sigh or frown. To be a boy is Age's joy, And so to him I'm growing down.

The Roads of Happiness

The roads of happiness are not The selfish roads of pleasure seeking, Where cheeks are flushed with haste and hot And none has time for kindly speaking. But they're the roads where lovers stray, Where wives and husbands walk together And children romp along the way Whenever it is pleasant weather.

The roads of happiness are trod By simple folks and tender-hearted, By gentle folks that worship God And want to live their days unparted. There kindly people stop and talk, Regardless of the chase for money, There, arm in arm, the grown-ups walk And every eye you see is sunny.

The roads of happiness are lined, Not with the friends of royal splendor, But with the loyal friends and kind That do the gentle deeds and tender. There fame has never brought unrest Nor glory set men's hearts to aching; There unabandoned is life's best For selfish love and money making.

The roads of happiness are those That do not lead to pomp and glory But wind among the joys and woes That make the humble toiler's story. The roads that oft we used to tread In early days when first we mated, When hearts were light and cheeks were red, And days were not with burdens freighted.

June

June is here, the month of roses, month of brides and month of bees, Weaving garlands for our lassies, whispering love songs in the trees, Painting scenes of gorgeous splendor, canvases no man could brush, Changing scenes from early morning till the sunset's crimson flush.

June is here, the month of blossoms, month of roses white and red, Wet with dew and perfume-laden, nodding wheresoe'er we tread; Come the bees to gather honey, all the lazy afternoon; Flowers and lassies, men and meadows, love alike the month of June.

Month of love and month of sunshine, month of happiness and song, Month that cheers the sad wayfarer as he plods the road along; Spreading out a velvet carpet, green and yellow, for his feet, And affording for his rest hours many a cool and sweet retreat.

When Mother Sleeps

When mother sleeps, a slamming door Disturbs her not at all; A man might walk across the floor Or wander through the hall A pistol shot outside would not Drive slumber from her eyes-- But she is always on the spot The moment baby cries.

The thunder crash she would not hear, Nor shouting in the street; A barking dog, however near, Of sleep can never cheat Dear mother, but I've noticed this To my profound surprise: That always wide-awake she is The moment baby cries.

However weary she may be, Though wrapped in slumber deep, Somehow it always seems to me Her vigil she will keep. Sound sleeper that she is, I take It in her heart there lies A love that causes her to wake The moment baby cries.

The Weaver

The patter of rain on the roof, The glint of the sun on the rose; Of life, these the warp and the woof, The weaving that everyone knows. Now grief with its consequent tear, Now joy with its luminous smile; The days are the threads of the year-- Is what I am weaving worth while?