Part 2

Mrs. Woodchuck ’neath some knoll, Drowses in her bed--a hole! Deep in earth.

Floweret bulbs nestled together, Doze all through the wintry weather, ’Neath the snow.

In the chrysalis hard by, Dreams the sometime butterfly, In corner hid.

Oh, what beds! So very queer! Yet to each one just as dear As yours to you!

BRIDGES WE NEVER CROSS

We fall in the habit too often I fear, Of crossing the bridges we never draw near; Though they loom up before us--they seem just ahead, There’s a turn and our feet are in other paths led.

We dread the to-morrow, its toil and its care, And feel that its burdens we never can bear; But when the to-morrow blends into to-day, The yesterday’s burdens have all slipped away!

Too often we hear: “Yes; ’tis pleasant this morn, But it’s a weather breeder, sure’s you are born!” So, much of God’s sunshine and beauty about Is forced from our lives by “perhaps” or a doubt!

Make use of the present--to-morrow may wait,-- To-day’s joys _to-morrow_ are realized too late! Let none of life’s pleasures, God-given, be lost, By crossing a bridge--till it has to be crossed!

A POOR TOWN TO LIVE IN

There’s a queer little town--I wonder if you’ve seen it,-- “Let-some-one-else-do-it” is the name of the place, And all of the people who’ve lived there for ages, Their family tree from the Wearies can trace!

The streets of this town, so ill-kept and untidy, And almost deserted from morning till noon, Are “In-just-a-minute”--you’ll see on the lamppost,-- “O-well-there’s-no-hurry,” and “Yes-pretty-soon.”

The principal work that they do in this hamlet, (There isn’t a person who thinks it a crime), Is loafing and dozing, but most of the people Are engaged in the traffic of _just-killing-time_!

I pray you, don’t dwell in this town overcrowded; There are others near by it most wondrous fair; The roads that lead to them--and each one is open,-- Are “Push,” “Pluck,” and “Ready,” “This minute,” and “Dare.”

WITH THOSE WHO CAN’T KEEP UP

It is human nature maybe to be borne ’long with the crowd, And when they shout and hollo, to hollo just as loud; But there’s a sight o’ pleasure like a draught from nectar’s cup, In just a-loitering back along with those who can’t keep up.

One needn’t think the only men God ever made are those Who wear the finest linen and the latest cut in clothes,-- I find patriotism, honor, and fidelity to truth, In the man whose outward bearing often is the most uncouth.

In the weather-beaten cottage where the eaves ’most touch the door, Whose shingles are quite hidden with the moss that’s gathered o’er, There is still the old-time altar, where duly morn and night, The inmates bow and ask the Lord to guide their steps aright.

The gentlest words are spoken when the heart is sad with woe, And the rarest wisdom emanates from those whose steps are slow, And those whose eyes are blind to sights that glisten for a day, See glories far transcendent that can never fade away.

So I like to loiter back a bit; the crowd may surge along. Perhaps for some it’s pleasant thus to jostle with the throng; But I find my life grows richer, even drinking sorrow’s cup, With the weary and unfortunate who cannot quite keep up!

HEROES

There are heroes who fall ’mid the carnage of battle, There are those who meet death on the foam,-- But greater are those who, unheralded, battle With Fate for the loved ones at home!

IN SLEIGHING TIME

There is magic in the jingle of the sleighbells, don’t you know, That sets the blood a-tinglin’ till the cheeks are all a-glow; An’ the cares that press upon one, in the merry winter weather, At the jingle of the sleighbells dance off lighter than a feather,-- How the jingle, An’ the ringle, Raises lowest spirits high! Hark! the tingle, Jingle, tingle! As the cutter dashes by!

When the moon is bright a-shinin’ an’ a-sparkle is the snow, ’Tis the plainest invitation just invitin’ one to go For a rollic an’ a frolic ‘hind a pair of prancin’ steeds,-- The very kind of tonic that a tired body needs,-- How the jingle, An’ the ringle, In the crisp an’ frosty air, An’ the tingle, Jingle, tingle, Hypnotizes anxious care!

E’en the stars are all a-twinkle! Hear the merry coasters shout! Happiness is everywhere a-lyin’ loose about! Everybody is as joyful as a new-anointed king,-- Age an’ wrinkles hide their faces while the magic sleighbells ring,-- Hark! the jingle, An’ the ringle,-- It just sets your soul a-rhyme With the tingle, Jingle, tingle, Of the magic sleighbells’ chime!

PROTECTED

I’ve built a wall about me, To keep all foes without,-- Anxiety, with all her train, And the grim monster, Doubt! You ask my name? ’Tis Happiness, With which no foe can cope! The wall I’ve built cannot be scaled,-- Its quarried blocks are Hope.

GRANDMOTHER’S STITCHES

What had happened to Emily Foote? Every button was gone from her boot! She noticed that morning that _one_ was loose; “I’ll fix it at bedtime!” Ah, little the use! “Remember my stitches,” grandmother said, As she kindly nodded her dear, wise head.

“A ‘corner rent’ in my dress, that’s all,” And Mary ran for her cap and shawl. “I’ll mend it soon--now there isn’t _time_!” How she wished she’d heeded her grandmother’s rhyme! The rent grew long and ever so wide, And kept her at home from the picnic ride.

Teddy was playing with ball and bat. “I’ve started a stitch!” “Oh, never mind that,” Answered his chum, jolly Archibald May, “’Twill last as long as we want to play!” “But grandmother says--” “Oh, bother such things!” So soon, the ball was but leather and strings. And grandmother’s stitches--yours and mine? “A stitch in _time_, my dear, saves _nine_!”

FOUR TO ONE

“I’m sorry,” said Mary, “it’s rainy to-day; When _I_ want it pleasant it’s always the way; It rains, rains, rains!”

“To-day I can finish my book,” said Dean; “It’s the jolliest one I ever have seen; For it rains, rains, rains!”

“It will fill up the swimming-hole, p’r’aps,” said Ted. “I can dive like a frog if it’s over my head; Glad it rains, rains, rains!”

“To-day,” said Herr Steuber, “my plants I’ll set out; I feared they would die because of the drought. Ha! it rains, rains, rains!”

“The weather’ll be cooler, and Aunt Polly Haynes May get over her fever,” said Lou, “if it rains-- If it rains, rains, rains!”

“I am so glad since such good can be done,” Said Mary, her face bright as yesterday’s sun, “That it rains, rains, rains!”

THE NEW GLASSES

The queerest thing happened (’twas not long ago), To Miss Betty Pringle. Perhaps you don’t know That it made little difference what came to her sight, There never was anything really quite right! The grass was too green, and the sky was too gray, And the wind never blew in a suitable way,-- If it came from the east it was brewing a storm, If it blew from the south ’twas oppressively warm! If the sun shone at all, it was always too bright, And she wished it would hurry and set for the night. If a friend came to see her with something new on, ’Twas “to show off her gewgaws, as sure’s you are born;” If a package were left in which dainties were found, She knew that her friend had an axe to be ground. And so it went on for a twelvemonth or more, Till a queer little stranger appeared at her door, With a case of new glasses of marvellous power, That would change one’s whole vision in less than an hour! At his rat-a-tat-tat! Betty Pringle came out, Much surprised at her brisk little caller, no doubt! “Good morning, my lady!” he said with a smile. “No, no; I’ll not step in--it’s hardly worth while. I’ve heard that your glasses (I cannot tell where) Are of a very poor make--p’r’aps you’d like a new pair.” And will you believe it, new ones she did take, In exchange for her own of the “fault-finding make”! And now Betty’s happy’s a queen need to be, For the beauty about her she’s able to see!

THE TWO WAYS

The ways diverged--I wondered which I’d take, And as I paused, I watched the people throng Out of the Somewhere, each with hurrying feet,-- To right, to left, they hastened all day long! They bore a heavy burden as they passed, (With every single one it was the same), And each was plainly marked, so all could read (I marvelled greatly at the fact), “My Aim.” And those who took the beaten path, I saw Soon laid their burden down and gazed around. Allured by vain enticements all about, They left their “Aim” forgotten on the ground! But those who took the other way pressed on, Nor feared for pleasure’s sake their “Aim” to lose,-- I now perceived this path was Duty, so No longer pondered which I ought to choose.

A WISE WAITING

A blushing little Mayflower Turned away her head, Too polite to let a weed Hear a word she said.

“I don’t think it nice at all, (I would make a fuss), Goldenrod should bloom, of course, In the spring with us!

“It is hard to wait so long, Till midsummer hours; I should get discouraged, quite, Waiting so for flowers.”

Near the wall a modest plant Twinkled in the dew; She heard all that had been said,-- Mayflower never knew.

Soon she whispered to a robin; He her secret told,-- “All this waiting means a changing Into sunny gold!”

THE VISITANT

In middle age, before the hearth, Deeply absorbed in counting o’er Successes won, he hardly heard The fall of footsteps on the floor.

Behind his chair a fair Youth stood, In phantom shape, and listening heard: “I’m happier now than when a boy!”-- The visitant neither turned nor stirred.

Tenderly sad, Lost Youth mused low, “He’s gained at length Fortune’s bequest,-- When I slipped slowly from his grasp, He cried, ‘My Boyhood days are best!’ But, no--though learned ’mid falling tears,-- One’s best days come with Manhood’s years!”

WORK AND WORRY

Discouraged and sad, Work came home, worn out, (Only a part of his task was done), And the Master asked in an anxious tone, If he had been hindered by any one. “A stranger stood by as I toiled,” he said, “A being possessed of gigantic frame!” “He’s stolen your strength,” the Master cried, “And Worry--too true--is the monster’s name!”

THE PRIZE WINNER

“The world owes me a living,” p’r’aps you’ve heard a body say, “It is best to take life easy--’tis, in fact, the only way.” So with loiterers and sluggards he in base contentment lies, While the man who works and struggles is the one who wins the prize.

Some grope always in the valley--really can they ever stop To consider what enchantment hovers round the mountain top? But the man who clambers upward, step by step the weary rise, Obtains vistas only dreamed of--he’s the one who wins the prize!

Some wait ever for the morrow--let the present hours slip by: “So little can be done to-day, what’s the use to try?” Notice, he who grasps the moments, lad, every one that flies, Is the man in life’s sharp contest who obtains the victor’s prize.

TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW

TO-DAY

A sunless sky, Unaccomplished aim, The flag of Hope at half mast furled,-- A bitter cry, “I’ve tried--no gain,-- O empty, disappointing world!”

TO-MORROW

A rosy light, Success attained, The banner of Victory to the breezes hurled,-- A cry of might, “The mastery gained, Hail! glorious, God-given world!”

A BEAUTIFUL RESULT

A beautiful smile in His service, A beautiful word of cheer, A beautiful act unselfish, A beautiful hint, “He’ll hear.” A beautiful tear sympathetic, A beautiful allaying of strife, A beautiful touch of a brother,-- The result is a beautiful life.

THE CRIPPLED HERO

(A CUBAN INCIDENT)

Pedro Rionda and his sons, Leandro and Ramé, Had left th’ insurgent army For a visit home that day.

And ere the time came to depart, To join their ranks once more, José, the little crippled son, Chanced to glance out the door.

His pinched face suddenly grew white,-- Yet calm he turned about; “Father, Leandro, Ramé--quick! The Spanish are without!”

Pedro Rionda’s heart stood still, He grasped his trusty gun,-- A Spanish army couldn’t make A Cuban patriot run!

His breath came quick--he thought aloud, “If we should face the band, They are too many--there’d be three,-- Three less to save the land!

“Oh, God! it is the only thing! It’s one or three--José! Think you could keep the devils back Till we are safe away!

“It may be death,” he spoke it soft, “When they don’t find us here,-- Our country needs her able men; Speak, José, have you fear?”

“No; father, no--quick, brothers, go! It’s all I have to give,-- It matters not if I am shot,-- Our country--it must live!”

One long embrace--and they are off! Bang! bang! ’twas José’s gun,-- The Spanish balls came whizzing fast,-- He met them, one by one.

And when his ammunition’s spent, The three are safe away,-- The Spaniards, crazed at their repulse, Rush in on brave José!

“Where, where,--and are the rebels fled, Are they escaped through _you_?” They madly grasped the crippled boy, While flashing swords they drew.

All honor be to Cuba’s sons (But let this not suffice) Who perished on the field--there’s, too, The cripple’s sacrifice!

MR. BUSHEL’S HOSPITALITY

Four brothers by the name of Peck, (All Mr. Bushel’s kin), As often as one desires it, Are taken by him in.

Eight sisters, the Misses Gallon, When the four Peck brothers are out, In Mr. Bushel’s quarters Have room to move about.

Thirty-two cousins, the Quarts--ah, me! What _will_ Mr. Bushel do? Polite and open, he smiles and says, “I’m alone, so there’s room for _you_!”

A jingling crowd--the sixty-four Pints, To shelter them, no fun! Mr. Bushel laughs, “I’m empty now, Walk in, come, every one!”

Two hundred and fifty-six baby Gills, The tiniest friends and shy,-- “Can we _all_ come in?” Mr. Bushel replies, “I can hold you and not half try!”

A jolly good fellow to entertain all, This Mr. Bushel must be! He takes them only one group at a time,-- And each group _makes_ him, you see!

THE WISH-MAN

A funny little Wish-Man came out of the Somewhere here, (You really should have seen him, he looked so wondrous queer); He had a pack upon his back, stuffed full as full could be, Of wishes for the boys and girls--those living near to me. He said he’d indirectly heard--he couldn’t tell just where,-- That in the town of Discontent were many dwelling there, Who wished for this and wished for that (it really was too bad), It made but little difference what, long’s ’t wasn’t what they had!

Accordingly, he stuffed his pack (and tied around a band), With every single kind of wish now found within the land, And fared he forth from house to house, to please the people all, And dealt out every kind of wish for which he had a call. To one ’twas wealth--a sordid wish; another called for joy; One asked for ease; one beauty took--a worthless sort of toy! And so he gave them this and that, and all seemed happy quite, For which the Wish-Man naturally took very keen delight.

But when a stranger passed the town of Discontent, he saw (’Twas just a short time after this) what filled him quite with awe; No merry whistle, smile nor laugh could be perceived at all,-- What dire disaster could have brought upon the town this pall! He called upon a wealthy youth, who said, “I’m all at sea,-- What stocks to buy, how to invest--it almost crazes me! Before a rich man I became, I had all sorts of fun, But since my wish, a moment’s joy I haven’t had, not one!”

And thus ’twas so all through the town. Each testified the same; Not one was half so happy as before the Wish-Man came. “Ah, ha!” Perhaps by this you’ve guessed who was the stranger man; If not, by throwing out this hint, I’m very sure you can! That night, when everything was still, there crept from room to room, Some one who gathered up each wish that caused such direful gloom, And when old Sol arose next day, and scattered sunbeams down, They fell upon--the name was changed--upon Contented Town!

A LITTLE MATHEMATICIAN

“Eight long furlongs I’ve gone to-day!” With evident pride said Ethel May.

“Three hundred and twenty rods, you know, Is what I’ve been,”--’twas brother Joe.

“One thousand, seven hundred and sixty--true! So many yards I’ve walked,” said Prue.

“Five thousand, two hundred and eighty feet I’ve gone,” said Ben, “and it can’t be beat!”

“Pooh!” laughed Ted, with a knowing smile, “You’ve only gone, each one, a mile!”

THE CASTLE OF MY DREAMS

The castle I love is not set on a hill, No flag from its turret waves, No water flows in its outer moat, Nor its rock foundation laves. My castle is old and its doors flap loose, As though wringing in grief its hands,-- Out by the wall, near the cherry trees, The barn of my childhood stands!

Empty the mows where from robbers fierce, We hid in the days gone by, Vacant the stall where Old Dolly stood, And watched as we played “I-spy!” Down in the bay only cobwebs now,-- To my child eyes once so deep, Where secure from escape our prisoners found Themselves in that dungeon-keep!

Sometimes on the clean-swept floor we spread Our feasts (’twas baronial hall) Of meats and wines from far over the seas,-- Bread and water composed them all! But never did lord or lady show Disrespect to the loyal host, By a _look_ that the board did not heavily groan With all dainties the world could boast.

A heartless echo now only sounds From rafter back to sill, When I call as I did--was it _yesterday_?-- To Rachel and Tom and Will. It seems that each beam sadly sighs with me For the days we were wont to play, Safe from temptation (you guarded us well, Old barn,) on the new-mown hay!

THE PASTURE BARS

Down the lane to the pasture bars! My prodigal thoughts once more Go back to my father’s calling me From the narrow back stairway door: “It’s getting late, Bob; the milking’s done!” (He never had more to say); With a bound to the floor I hurriedly dressed, To drive the cows away!

A nodded “Good morning” from wayside flower; From every tree a song, (A symphony rare of warbled joy), As the cows slowly browsed along! The sun gently kissed the mist away, That over the valley hung, While odors of incense floated high, From an unseen censer swung.

Then, too, when the work in the field was o’er, While heavier chores were done By older men, I trudged along, In the path of the setting sun, Calling, “Co’ bos! co’ bos! co’ bos!” And often the baby stars Played hide-and-seek from behind a cloud, Ere I left the pasture bars.

No more do I hear in the city’s din, (And never shall I again), The country sounds in the early morn, As I trudged a-down the lane; But I hope as I near the sunset hour, No sorrow my pathway mars, Greater than that when I called “Co’ bos!” As a boy by the pasture bars!

End of Project Gutenberg's The Barefoot Time, by Adelbert Farrington Caldwell