Part 1
Produced by Al Haines
The Passing Throng
By
Edgar A. Guest
The Reilly & Lee Co. Chicago
_Printed in the U. S. A._
_Copyright, 1923_ _by_ _The Reilly & Lee Co._
_All Rights Reserved_
_The Passing Throng_
_By_
Edgar A. Guest
_Verse--_ The Light of Faith A Heap o' Livin' Just Folks Poems of Patriotism The Path to Home When Day Is Done The Passing Throng Rhymes of Childhood Harbor Lights of Home The Friendly Way Life's Highway
_Illustrated--_ All That Matters
_Prose--_ What My Religion Means to Me Making the House a Home My Job as a Father Why I Go to Church You Can't Live Your Own Life
_Gift Books--_ Mother Father Home Friends You Faith
To W. F. L.
Whose friendship needs neither symbol nor token, this book is affectionately dedicated
INDEX
Abe Lincoln Apples Ripe for Eating Arcady
Ballad of the Indifferent Whist Player, The Battle of Belleau Wood Being Brave at Night Beneath the Dirt Bill and I Went Fishing Book and a Pipe, A Boy or Girl? Boy's Feet, A Boy, The Bread and Butter Broken Wheel, The Busy Summer Cottage, The
Callers, The Carpet on the Stairs, The Carving Knife, The Certain Man, A Chimney Piece, The Choir Boy, The Consolation Crocus, The Cup of Tea, A
Dirty Hands Down the Lanes of August Dreamer, The Driver of the Truck, The
Easter
Fairy and the Robin, The Fairy Story, A Father Song Football
Garden Catalogue, The Good Enough Good Night Grass and Children Grief's Only Master Guiseppe Tomassi
Here on the Earth High Chair Days Hills of Faith, The His Work Horse and Cutter Days Hot Mince Pie
I Don't Want to Go to Bed If It's Worth While If I Were a Boss If I Were Sending My Boy Afar I Mustn't Forget Inspiration of the Past, The
Last Night the Baby Cried Laughing Boy, The Lay of the Troubled Golfer, The Lesson of the Crate, The Let's Be Brave Letter, The Life Needs Us All Life's Equipment Little Clothes Line, The Living with the People Luckless Fisherman, The
Making of a Friend, The Man Must Want, A Man Who Gets Promoted, The Morning Brigands Mortgage and the Man, The Mother and the Styles Mother's Way Mushroom Expert, The My Goals
October Old-Fashioned Dinners Old-Fashioned Remedies Old-Time Lilac Bush, The "Our Little House" Out-Doors Man, The Over the Crib
Partridge Time Passing Throng, The Peter and Paul Proud Father
Questioning
Radio, The
Sacrifices Scoutmaster, The She Never Gave Me a Chance Ships Shoes Song in Everything, A Spirit of the Home, The Spring Fever Stick to It
Take a Boy Along With You Teach Them of the Flag Tender Blossoms, The They're Waiting Over There Time I Played With Vardon, The To the Little Baby Tower Clock, The Town of Used to Be, The Training of Jimmy McBride, The Triumph True Critic, The Tumbler at the Sink, The
Visitors
Waiter, The Way of a Wife, The What a Father Wants to Know When Father Broke His Arm When I Get Home When There's Company for Tea When the Soap Gets in Your Eye White Oak, The Whooping Cough Wife o' Mine
Yellow Dog, The
_The Passing Throng_
From newsboy to the millionaire The passing throng goes by each day; The old man with his weight of care, The maiden in her colors gay, The mother with her babe in arms, The dreamer and the man of might, Grief's cruel scars and laughter's charms Pass by the window, day and night.
Now slowly rides a corpse to find The grave and its unbroken sleep, And in the carriages behind A score of sorrowing loved ones weep; But scarcely has the hearse passed by Upon its journey to the tomb, When, wreathed with smiles of love, we spy The faces of a bride and groom.
We cannot understand it all, We cannot know why this is so; From dawn until night's curtains fall, We see the people come and go. Hope lights the eyes of youth to-day, To-morrow care has left them dim; Once this man proudly walked his way, But now defeat has broken him.
Could we but watch, as God must do, We'd see the struggling youth arise, We'd see him brave his dangers through, And reach his goal and claim the prize. And we might judge with gentler sight The broken lives, which come and go, And better choose 'twixt wrong and right-- If we could know what God must know.
_Wife o' Mine_
Wife o' Mine, day after day Cheering me along the way; Patient, tender, smiling, true, Always ready to renew Faltering courage and to share All the day may bring of care; Dreaming dreams wherein you see Brighter years that are to be; Calling paltry pleasures fine-- That's you always, Wife o' Mine.
Wife o' Mine, we've shed some tears With the passing of the years, Mourned beside our lovely dead; But somehow you've always said You and I could bear the blow Knowing God had willed it so; And you've smiled to show to me Just how brave you meant to be, Smiled to keep my faith in line-- That's you, always, Wife o' Mine.
Wife o' Mine, long years ago Once I promised you would know Luxuries and costly things, Gowns of silk and jeweled rings, And you laughed as though you knew Dreams like that could not come true; Now perhaps they never will, But I see you laughing still, Welcoming me with eyes that shine-- That's you always, Wife o' Mine.
_Let's Be Brave_
Let's be brave when the laughter dies And the tears come into our troubled eyes, Let's cling to the faith and the old belief When the skies grow gray with the clouds of grief, Let's bear the sorrow and hurt and pain And wait till the laughter comes again.
Let's be brave when the trials come And our hearts are sad and our lips are dumb, Let's strengthen ourselves in the times of test By whispering softly that God knows best; Let us still believe, though we cannot know, We shall learn sometime it is better so.
Let's be brave when the joy departs Till peace shall come to our troubled hearts, For the tears must fall and the rain come down And each brow be pressed to the thorny crown; Yet after the dark shall the sun arise, So let's be brave when the laughter dies.
_Boy or Girl?_
Some folks pray for a boy, and some For a golden-haired little girl to come. Some claim to think there is more of joy Wrapped up in the smile of a little boy, While others pretend that the silky curls And plump, pink cheeks of the little girls Bring more of bliss to the old home place Than a small boy's queer little freckled face.
Now which is better, I couldn't say If the Lord should ask me to choose to-day; If He should put in a call for me And say: "Now what shall your order be, A boy or girl? I have both in store-- Which of the two are you waiting for?" I'd say with one of my broadest grins: "Send either one, if it can't be twins."
I've heard it said, to some people's shame, They cried with grief when a small boy came, For they wanted a girl. And some folks I know Who wanted a boy, just took on so When a girl was sent. But it seems to me That mothers and fathers should happy be To think, when the Stork has come and gone, That the Lord would trust them with either one.
Boy or girl? There can be no choice; There's something lovely in either voice. And all that I ask of the Lord to do Is to see that the mother comes safely through And guard the baby and have it well, With a perfect form and a healthy yell, And a pair of eyes and a shock of hair. Then, boy or girl--and its dad won't care.
_They're Waiting Over There_
They're waiting for us over there; The young, the beautiful and fair Who left us, oh, so long ago, Lonely and hurt on earth below, Are waiting bravely, never fear, Until our faces shall appear.
Then, when our journey here is done, And we set out to follow on Through the great, heavy mantled door Which leads to rest forevermore, They will be there to laugh away The loneliness we feel to-day.
They'll welcome us with wondrous grace, And show us all about the place; They'll take us gently by the hand And guide us through that radiant land; They'll tell us all they've learned and seen Through the long absence that has been.
We'll meet the friends who have been kind To them the while we stayed behind-- Angels who long have dwelt above, Who welcomed them with arms of love, And sheltered them the long years through, Just as we'd prayed for them to do.
Though now you mourn, who stay behind, How sad 'twould be to leave, and find Upon that distant other shore No loved one who had gone before-- The gates of Heaven to enter through With no one there to welcome you.
As now, when some long journey ends And we're received by smiling friends Who've watched and waited for our train, So shall they welcome us again; The young, the beautiful and fair Will all be waiting for us there.
_Visitors_
We've had a lot of visitors, it seems, for weeks an' weeks, And Pa is gettin' all run down. Ma says that when he speaks He isn't civil any more. He mopes around the place And always seems to wear a look of sadness on his face. And yesterday he said to Ma when she began to fuss: "I wonder when they're going to quit an' leave the home to us.
"It's nice to have your people come, but some of them should go; Instead of that they're sticking here like bull dogs at a show. 'The more the merrier,' they shout, as other ones drop in. I'm getting so I cannot stand to see your cousins grin And, what is more, I'm getting tired of driving folks about And mighty tired of visitors who must be taken out.
"Night after night when I've come home I've hauled them near and far, You'd think I was the driver of a town sight-seeing car. I've hauled them up to factories and monuments and parks, Museums and aquariums; I've shown 'em seals and sharks And bears and wolves and elephants; and now I want to quit. I know they'd do the same for me, but I am sick of it.
"I wouldn't say a word at all about your folks, I know They're just as nice as they can be, but still I wish they'd go. I'm tired of all the buzz and talk, the tales of those who've died; I'm tired of seeing all our chairs forever occupied." "And I am tired myself," said Ma, "as tired as I can be, You're only on the job at night, but it's all day long for me."
_When Father Broke His Arm_
Pa never gets a story straight. He's always mixed about the date, Or where it was, or what occurred, Or who related what he heard; And every time he starts to tell Some little story he knows well, Ma says: "No, Pa, as I recall, That isn't how it was at all."
"Remember when I broke my arm," Says Pa, "when we were on the farm And I went out that slippery morn A few days after Bud was born, To get some wood"--and Ma says then: "Oh, Pa, don't tell that tale again! And anyhow, I know right well Bud wasn't born the day you fell."
"'Twas months before he came," says Ma. "'Twas after he was born," says Pa; "I rather think I ought to know Just when it was I suffered so." "Maybe you ought," says Ma, "but still, I saw you tumble down the hill, And it was March with snow drifts high-- Bud wasn't born till next July."
"I'd walk him round the floor," says Pa. "You're all mixed up again," says Ma. "We'll ask Aunt Lizzie, she was there, She'd come to help." Says Ma: "I swear You're just as crazy as a loon, Aunt Lizzie didn't come till June. To argue on is most absurd, Bud wasn't born when that occurred."
I wish I knew just what is what Or whether I was born or not, But I'll just have to sit and wait Until Pa gets his story straight; And I have never heard at all Just how it was he chanced to fall, For Pa and Ma can't yet agree Which one came first--the fall or me.
_The Spirit of the Home_
Dishes to wash and clothes to mend, And always another meal to plan, Never the tasks of a mother end And oh, so early her day began! Floors to sweep and the pies to bake, And chairs to dust and the beds to make.
Oh, the home is fair when you come at night And the meal is good and the children gay, And the kettle sings in its glad delight And the mother smiles in her gentle way; So great her love that you seldom see Or catch a hint of the drudgery.
Home, you say, when the day is done, Home to comfort and peace and rest; Home, where the children romp and run-- There is the place that you love the best! Yet what would the home be like if you Had all of its endless tasks to do?
Would it be home if she were not there, Brave and gentle and fond and true? Could you so fragrant a meal prepare? Could you the numberless duties do? What were the home that you love so much, Lacking her presence and gracious touch?
She is the spirit of all that's fair; She is the home that you think you build; She is the beauty you dream of there; She is the laughter with which it's filled-- She, with her love and her gentle smile, Is all that maketh the home worth while.
_If I Were Sending My Boy Afar_
If I were sending my boy afar To live and labor where strangers are, I should hold him close till the time to go, Telling him things which he ought to know; I should whisper counsel and caution wise, Hinting of dangers which might arise, And tell him the things I have learned from life, Of its bitter pain and its cruel strife And the sore temptations which men beset, And then add this: "Boy, don't forget When your strength gives out and your hope grows dim, Your father will help if you'll come to him."
If I were sending a boy away, I should hold him close on the parting day And give him my trust. Through thick and thin I should tell him I counted on him to win, To keep his word at whatever cost, To play the man though his fight be lost. But beyond all that I should whisper low: "If trouble comes, let your father know; Come to him, son, as you used to do When you were little--he'll see you through. I am trusting you in a distant land. You trust your father to understand.
"Trust me wherever you chance to be, Know there is nothing to hide from me, Tell me it all--your tale of woe, The sting of failure that hurts you so. Never, whatever your plight may be, Think it something to hide from me; Come to me first in your hour of need, Come though you know that my heart will bleed! Boy, when the shadows of trouble fall, Come to your father first of all."
_The White Oak_
The white oak keeps its leaves till spring when other trees are bare, And who will take the time to look, will find the young bud there; The young bud nestled snug and warm against the winter's cold; The young bud being sheltered by the knowledge of the old.
And when the spring shall come again--and gentle turns the day, The youthful bud will swell with strength and thrust the old away; The youthful bud will seek the breeze and hunger for the sun, And down to earth will fall the old with all its duty done.
Then, heedless of the parent leaf, the youthful bud will grow And watch the robins build their nests and watch the robins go. Then something strange will come to it when that young leaf grows old, It, too, will want to shield its babe against the winter's cold.
It, too, will cling unto the tree through many a dreary day Until the spring-time comes again and it is thrust away; Then it will flutter down to earth with all its duty done, And leave behind its happy child to drink the morning sun.
How like man's life from birth to close! How like the white oak tree Which keeps a shelter for its young against the storms, are we! We guard our children through the night and watch them through the day, And when at last our work is done, like leaves, we fall away.
_Dirty Hands_
I have to wash myself at night before I go to bed, An' wash again when I get up, and wash before I'm fed, An' Ma inspects my neck an' ears an' Pa my hands an' shirt-- They seem to wonder why it is that I'm so fond of dirt. But Bill--my chum--an' I agree that we have never seen A feller doing anything whose hands were white an' clean.
Bill's mother scolds the same as mine an' calls him in from play To make him wash his face an' hands a dozen times a day. Dirt seems to worry mothers so. But when the plumber comes To fix the pipes, it's plain to see he never scrubs his thumbs; His clothes are always thick with grease, his face is smeared with dirt, An' he is not ashamed to show the smudges on his shirt.
The motorman who runs the car has hands much worse than mine, An' I have noticed when we ride there's dirt in every line. The carpenter who works around our house can mend a chair Or put up shelves or fix the floor, an' mother doesn't care That he's not in his Sunday best; she never interferes An' makes him stop his work to go upstairs to wash his ears.
The fellers really doing things, as far as I can see. Have hands and necks and ears that are as dirty as can be. The man who fixes father's car when he can't make it go, Most always has a smudgy face--his hands aren't white as snow. But I must wash an' wash an' wash while everybody knows The most important men in town have dirty hands and clo'es.
_If I Were a Boss_
If I were a boss I would like to say: "You did a good job here yesterday." I'd look for a man, or a girl, or boy Whose heart would leap with a thrill of joy At a word of praise, and I'd pass it out Where the crowd could hear as I walked about.
If I were the boss I would like to find The fellow whose work is the proper kind; And whenever to me a good thing came, I'd ask to be told the toiler's name, And I'd go to him and I'd pat his back And I'd say: "That was perfectly splendid, Jack!"
Now a bit of praise isn't much to give, But it's dear to the hearts of all who live; And there's never a man on this good old earth But is glad to be told that he's been of worth; And a kindly word when the work is fair Is welcomed and wanted everywhere.
If I were a boss, I am sure I should Say a kindly word whenever I could, For the man who has given his best by day Wants a little more than his weekly pay; He likes to know, with the setting sun, That his boss is pleased with the work he's done.
_To the Little Baby_
You know your mother--that's plain as day, But those wide blue eyes of you seem to say When I bend over your crib: "Now who Are you?" It's little figure I cut, I know, And faces trouble a baby so, But I'm the gladdest of all the glad-- Your dad!
You're two months old, and you see us smile, And I know you are wondering all the while Whoever on earth can these people be You see. You've learned your mother; you know her well When hunger rattles the dinner bell, But somehow or other you cannot place My face.
As yet, I'm but one of the passing throng, The curious people who come along And pause at your crib, and you seem to say Each day: "I know one voice that is sweet to hear, I know her step when my mother's near, I know her wonderful smile--but who Are you?
"You always come with the same old grin, Your finger's rough when you tickle my chin, But you run away when I start to cry, And I Don't understand when visitors call Why you're so afraid they will let me fall. You are the queerest of all the queer Folks here!"
It's true that over your crib I stand And tickle your chin with my rough old hand. And I run away when you start to cry, But I Have a right to my queer little funny ways, To boast your worth and to sound your praise, For I am the gladdest of all the glad-- Your dad.
_His Work_
There isn't much fame on a farm, an' the farm doesn't pile up the wealth; It gives you an appetite early an' late, an' it's usually lavish with health. The world travels by in its cars, but the men and the women don't see Any reason to cheer anything that I do or pin any medals on me; But I'm doin' my work just the same an' at night-time the Lord an' I know That the wheat's lookin' fine in the acres out there, and I--well, I helped it to grow.
Sometimes I get gloomy an' blue an' wish I could rise with the great, An' wish I could point something out which my hands have builded or helped to create; Then the orchard looks over to me an' the fruit-laden trees seem to say, "If it were not for you an' the care that you've given, we wouldn't be bearin' today." An' the acres of corn over there, I planted 'em all, row by row, "The good gift o' nature," the poets declare--but the Lord knows I helped it to grow.
I reckon I'm fillin' my place, though workin' all day on the soil An' standin' the heat of the merciless sun isn't listed as glorious toil. There's little of brilliance here, an' there's nothin' to brag of; I guess A farmer's a farmer, an' that's all he is--an' his crops are his only success. But the Lord knows, an' I know it, too, as I plough or I harrow or hoe, That these fields would be barren of wheat an' of corn, if I hadn't helped 'em to grow.
_Bread and Butter_
I've eaten chicken a la king And many a fancy dish, I think I've tasted everything The heart of man can wish; But nightly when we dine alone, My grateful praise I utter Unto that good old stand-by, known As mother's bread and butter.
Some think it very common fare And may be they are right, But I can take that wholesome pair At morning, noon and night; And there's a happy thrill I feel That sets my heart a-flutter As I sit down to make a meal Of mother's bread and butter.
Though poets sing their favorite foods In lilting lines and sweet, And each unto his different moods Tells what he likes to eat, I still remain the little boy Who gleefully would mutter A youngster's gratitude and joy For mother's bread and butter.
So now, for all the joy I've had From such a wholesome pair Since first I was a little lad In hunger's deep despair, I hold the finest food of all-- Though epicures may sputter And sneer me from the banquet hall-- Is mother's bread and butter.
_The Little Clothes Line_
The little clothes line by the kitchen door! My mother stretched it once when I was young, And there the garments which the baby wore, Each morning, very carefully, she hung.
Square bits of flannel fluttered in the breeze, White stockings very delicate and small, Long flowing dresses and the glad bootees, A little blanket and a knitted shawl.
Then came the day when mother took it down, And we forgot what symbols fluttered there; We'd grown to breast the current of the town, To fight for conquest and to stand to care.
Ten years ago she smiled and said to me: "I want a little clothes line by the door." And there she hung, for all the world to see, The various bits of raiment which he wore.
Even the ragman on his alley round Knew, by the symbols fluttering on that line, That there a little baby would be found, And day by day he saw that glorious sign.