Part 2

Then boyhood came and called our babe away, Muscled him strong and turned his cheeks to brown, Gave him the strength to run and romp and play, And then she took the little clothes line down.

To-day I sat beside her bed, and she Smiled the sweet smile of motherhood once more. "When I get up again," she said to me, "I'll want a little clothes line by the door."

_The Ballad of the Indifferent Whist Player_

I am not much at the game, Careless the things that I do; Those whose approval I claim When I attempt it, are few; Bridge players look in dismay After a hand I have played, Always they icily say: "Why did you lead me a spade?"

I, who am gentle and tame, Am scorned by a merciless crew; I bear the brunt and the blame Whenever they mutter, "Down two!" No matter what card I may play, No matter that whist's not my trade, Always they sneeringly say: "Why did you lead me a spade?"

Matron, young maiden or dame, Brown eyes or gray eyes or blue, Angrily treat me the same Recalling the cards that I drew. Be it December or May, Ever she starts this tirade With a look that's intended to slay: "Why did you lead me a spade?"

_L'Envoi_

Prince, when my soul flies away And my form in the cold ground is laid, Let me rest where nobody will say: "Why did you lead me a spade?"

_The Broken Wheel_

We found the car beneath a tree. "The steering knuckle broke," said he; "The driver's dead; they say his wife Will be an invalid for life. I wonder how the man must feel Who made that faulty steering wheel."

It seemed a curious thought, and I Sat thinking, as the cars went by, About the man who made the wheel And shaped that knuckle out of steel; I tried to visualize the scene-- The man, the steel and the machine.

Perhaps the workman never saw An indication of the flaw; Or, seeing it, he fancied it Would not affect his work a bit, And said: "It's good enough to go-- I'll pass it on. They'll never know."

"It's not exactly to my best But it may pass the final test; And should it break, no man can know It was my hand that made it so. The thing is faulty, but perhaps We'll never hear it when it snaps."

Of course the workman couldn't see The mangled car beneath the tree, The dead man, and the tortured wife Doomed to a cripple's chair for life-- His chief concern was getting by The stern inspector's eager eye.

Perhaps he whistles on his way Into the factory to-day And doesn't know the ruin wrought By just one minute's careless thought. Yet human life is held at stake By nearly all that toilers make.

_The Tender Blossoms_

"I will gather some flowers for our friend," she said, So into the garden with her I went And stood for awhile at the rose's bed As she stooped to her labor of sentiment.

"Why not the full blown blossom there? Why do you leave it and pass it by?" Those were the questions I asked of her. And she answered me: "It is soon to die."

"Here is a withered and blasted rose, Better without it the plant would be; Cut it and mingle it now with those You are taking away for your friend to see."

"Here is a peony stained and torn, Take it and cling to your choicest bloom." But she answered me with a look of scorn: "These flowers are to brighten a sick friend's room."

"Only the tenderest bud I'll take. Never the withered and worn and old; Of my fairest flowers is the gift I make By which my love for my friend is told."

"So, when the angels call," said I, "And fold in their arms a little child, Passing the old and the broken by, Think of this and be reconciled.

"Always the tenderest buds they take, Pure and lovely and undefiled. When a gift of love unto God they'd make, Always they come for a little child."

_Questioning_

You shall wonder as you meet Drunkards reeling down the street, Helpless cripples and the blind, Human wrecks of every kind Living on from day to day, Why your loved one couldn't stay.

These are thoughts which always come When the heart with grief is numb. "Why," the anguished mother cries, With the tears still in her eyes, "Must my baby go away And some sinful creature stay?"

Thus, rebellious in your grief, You may falter in belief And your blinded eyes will see No just cause why this should be; But the passing years will show Wisely was it ordered so.

Hold your faith and bear the pain-- Questioning your God is vain. None of us has power to know Who should stay and who should go. Hold this everlasting truth-- Heaven has need of lovely youth.

Think of this when you are tried: If the wretched only died, Then would death to us be sent Always as a punishment? But the passing from the earth Is more beautiful than birth.

_The Choir Boy_

They put his spotless surplice on And tied his flowing tie, And he was fair to look upon As he went singing by. He sang the hymns with gentle grace, That little lad of nine, For there was something in his face Which seemed almost divine.

His downcast eye was good to see, His brow was smooth and fair, And no one dreamed that there could be A rascal plotting there; Yet when all heads in prayer were bowed, God's gracious care to beg, The boy next to him cried aloud: "Quit pinching o' my leg!"

A pious little child he seemed, An angel born to sing; Beholding him, none ever dreamed He'd do a naughty thing; Yet many a sudden "ouch!" proclaimed That he had smuggled in For mischief-making, unashamed, A most disturbing pin.

And yet, I think, from high above, The Father looking down, Knows everything he's thinking of And smiles when mortals frown, For in the spotless surplice white Which is his mother's joy, He knows he's not an angel bright, But just a healthy boy.

_The Lay of the Troubled Golfer_

His eye was wild and his face was taut with anger and hate and rage, And the things he muttered were much too strong for the ink of the printed page. I found him there when the dusk came down, in his golf clothes still was he, And his clubs were strewn around his feet as he told his grief to me: "I'd an easy five for a seventy-nine--in sight of the golden goal-- An easy five and I took an eight--an eight on the eighteenth hole!

"I've dreamed my dreams of the 'seventy men,' and I've worked year after year, I have vowed I would stand with the chosen few ere the end of my golf career; I've cherished the thought of a seventy score, and the days have come and gone And I've never been close to the golden goal my heart was set upon. But today I stood on the eighteenth tee and counted that score of mine, And my pulses raced with the thrill of joy--I'd a five for a seventy-nine!

"I can kick the ball from the eighteenth tee and get this hole in five, But I took the wood and I tried to cross that ditch with a mighty drive--" Let us end the quotes, it is best for all to imagine his language rich, But he topped that ball, as we often do, and the pill stopped in the ditch. His third was short and his fourth was bad and his fifth was off the line, And he took an eight on the eighteenth hole with a five for a seventy-nine.

I gathered his clubs and I took his arm and alone in the locker room I left him sitting upon the bench, a picture of grief and gloom; And the last man came and took his shower and hurried upon his way, But still he sat with his head bowed down like one with a mind astray, And he counted his score card o'er and o'er and muttered this doleful whine: "I took an eight on the eighteenth hole, with a five for a seventy-nine!"

_Peter and Paul_

Peter's the fellow I go to whenever Paul presses his claim. Peter is easy to deal with, Peter's not ready with blame; Paul has a way of insisting I shall be true to my word, And hints of a final accounting whenever a debt is incurred.

Peter is pleasant and smiling and ready to lend when he can; Paul offers counsel and caution and talks of the ways of a man, And whenever Paul's debts must be settled and I must return what I owe And haven't the money I promised, to borrow from Peter I go.

But the more that I think about Peter, the greater my fancy for Paul, I know he'd be first to defend me if ever disaster should fall, For Peter thinks only of money and smilingly reckons his fee, While Paul, when he whispers of caution, thinks not of himself but of me.

Paul would defend me from trouble, would shield and protect my renown, But Peter would add to my burdens and smilingly let me go down. Yes, Peter the pleasant would wreck me, and gloat when I rode to my fall, So the more that I learn about Peter, the greater my fondness for Paul.

_Life's Equipment_

"Here's how I figure it out," says he, "With my ears to hear and my eyes to see, And my legs to walk and my hands to work, And a head to bow and a cap to jerk Whenever a woman I know goes by-- It's well-equipped for this life, am I.

"Kings and princes and high and low Have noses to smell when the blossoms blow. And eyes to see, but I don't suppose A king smells more with his royal nose Or sees more charm with his kingly eye In the pink of the orchard blooms, than I.

"But eyes and ears and legs and hands Don't always follow the same commands, And some find beauty in dollar bills, And some in the streams and the misty hills; Some people hear nothing but mortal words, And some are tuned to the songs of birds.

"Some grapple with facts that are stiff and cold, And some see visions all tipped with gold; Some hands are tender and others rough, And some are gentle and some are gruff; But each must follow life's pathway through, Doing the things which he likes to do.

"Now I find joy when I tramp about, Up hill and down, for my legs are stout And my ears and eyes can pick up things That are maybe lost to the wisest kings; And I'm always grateful, when day is through, That I'm built for the things which I like to do."

_A Fairy Story_

Sit here on my knee, little girl, and I'll tell A story to you Of a fairy I knew Who lived in a garden when I was a child. She was lovely to see and whenever she smiled The sunbeams came dancing around just to know Whatever it was that was pleasing her so.

She lived in a poppy and used to peek out And shout: "Oh, Yoo-hoo! I've been waiting for you!" And then I'd go over to her house and play And she'd saddle a bee and we'd both ride away, Or sometimes we'd take a most wonderful trip With the sky for the sea and a cloud for our ship.

Oft my father and mother would look out and say: "The glad little elf Plays there all by himself, And he comes in and tells us of things he has seen And the marvelous places to which he has been; He tells us of dining with princes and kings-- It's a curious boy who can think up such things."

Now this all occurred in the long years ago, And the fairy has fled, And the poppies are dead, And never again may I ride on a bee, Or sail on a cloud with the sky for the sea. But that fairy has promised, when poppies are fair, To come back again and to wait for you there.

Yes, you can go out when the skies are all blue And see what I've seen, And go where I've been. You can have fairies to lead you away, To show you strange sights and to share in your play; And the grown-ups may say that your fancies are wild, But fairies are real to an innocent child.

Shoes

I'll tell you it's a problem, when a youngster's nine years old, To keep his feet in leather and to keep him heeled and soled; Just about the time I fancy I've some money I can use, His mother comes and tells me that he needs a pair of shoes.

Now I can wear a pair of shoes for several months or more, But Bud, it seems, is working for the man who keeps the store, And the rascal seems to fancy that his duty is to show How fast a healthy, rugged boy can wreck a leather toe.

But shoes are made for romping in, for climbing and for fun, For kicking bricks and empty cans, and I am not the one To make him walk sedately in the way that grown-ups do-- There's time enough for that, I say, when all his boyhood's through.

So let him wreck them, heels and toes, and scuff their soles away, I'll not begrudge the bill for shoes that I'm compelled to pay, For I rejoice that it's my lot, when mother breaks the news, To have a healthy, roguish boy who's always needing shoes.

_Football_

I'd rather fancied it would come, a healthy boy who's ten years old Forecasts the things he'll want to do without his secrets being told; And so last night when I got home and found his mother strangely still, I guessed somehow that mother love had battled with a youngster's will. "You'll have to settle it," said she; "there's nothing more that I can say, The game of football's calling him and he insists he wants to play."

We've talked it over many a time; we've hoped he wouldn't choose the game, And I suppose there's not a boy whose parents do not feel the same. They dread, as we, the rugged sport; they wonder, too, just what they'll say When son of theirs comes home, as ours, and begs to be allowed to play. And now the question's up to me, a question that I can't evade, But football is a manly game and I am glad he's not afraid.

He wants to play, he says to me; he knows the game is rough and grim, But worse than hurt and broken bones is what his friends will think of him; "They'd call me yellow," he explained, "if I stay out." Of all things here There's nothing quite so hard to bear as is the heartless gibe or jeer, And though I cannot spare him pain or hurt when tackles knock him flat, Being his father, I've said "yes," because I choose to spare him that.

_She Never Gave Me a Chance_

It happened that I came along as school was letting out And laughing boys and smiling girls raced everywhere about; But two there were who walked along the road in front of me And one young head was bowed to earth, a troubled lad was he; And as I stepped around the pair to hasten on my way: "She never gave a chance to me!" I heard the youngster say.

Oh, I have been a boy myself, and I have been to school And I have suffered punishment for breaking many a rule; I've worn the brand of mischief and been written down as bad, So I could reconstruct the scene--the teacher and the lad, The swift avenging punishment, the stern and angry glance, The blot of shame upon a boy sent home without a chance.

I did not stop to ask the lad his little tale to tell, There was no need of that because I knew the story well-- "She never gave a chance to me!" that sentence held it all. A hundred times I'd lived the scene in days when I was small, A broken rule, a teacher vexed, hot rage where calm belonged, A guilty judgment blindly made--a youngster sadly wronged.

I still can see that little chap upon his homeward way, "She never gave a chance to me," I still can hear him say, And so I write this verse for him, and all the girls and boys Who shall their tutors now and then disturb with needless noise. Be fair, you teachers of our land, in every circumstance; Don't let some little fellow say he never had a chance.

_Down the Lanes of August_

Down the lanes of August--and the bees upon the wing-- All the world's in color now, and all the song birds sing; Never reds will redder be, more golden be the gold, Down the lanes of August, and the summer getting old.

Mother Nature's brushes now with paints are dripping wet, Gorgeous is her canvas with the tints we can't forget; Here's a yellow wheat field--purple asters there-- Riotous the colors that she's splashing everywhere.

Red the cheeks of apples and pink the peaches' bloom, Redolent the breezes with the sweetness of perfume; Everything is beauty, crowned by skies of clearest blue; Mother Earth is at her best once more for me and you.

Down the lanes of August, with her blossoms at our feet, Rich with gold and scarlet, dripping wet with honey sweet. Rich or poor, no matter, here are splendors spread-- Down the lanes of August, for all who wish to tread.

_Arcady_

Where is the road to Arcady, Where is the path that leads to peace, Where shall I find the bliss to be, Where shall the weary wanderings cease? These are the questions that come to me-- Where is the road to Arcady?

Is there a mystic time and place To which some day shall the traveler fare, Where there is never a frowning face And never a burden hard to bear, Where we as children shall romp and race? Is there a mystic time and place?

For Arcady is an earthly sphere, Where only the gentlest breezes blow, A port of rest for the weary here, Where the velvet grass and the clover grow. I question it oft, is it far or near? For Arcady is an earthly sphere.

And the answer comes--it is very near, It's there at the end of a little street, Where your children's voices are ringing clear And you catch the patter of little feet. Where is the spot that is never drear? And the answer comes--it is very near.

For each man buildeth his Arcady, And each man fashions his Port of Rest; And never shall earth spot brighter be Than the little home that with peace is blessed. So seek it not o'er the land and sea-- For each man buildeth his Arcady.

_Sacrifices_

Behind full many a gift there lies A splendid tale of sacrifice.

On Christmas morn a mother's hand About a young girl's neck will place A trinket small, and she will stand With radiant smiles upon her face To see her daughter decked in gold-- Nor will she think, nor will she care That she may suffer from the cold Because that bauble glistens there.

A child will wake on Christmas day And find his stocking filled with toys; The home will ring with laughter gay-- That boy be glad as richer boys. And there a mother fond will sing A song of joy to hear his shout-- Forgetting every needed thing That she will have to do without.

A heart that's brimming o'er with love Will suffer gladly for a friend, And take no time in thinking of How much it can afford to spend. And suddenly on Christmas morn Will gladness beam from shining eyes-- A gladness that alone was born Of someone's willing sacrifice.

Let cynics scoff howe'er they will And say but fools such presents give, There'll be such sacrifices till All human love shall cease to live. 'Twould be a dreary world of thrift, Of barren ways, and sunless skies, If no one ever gave a gift That was not born of sacrifice.

The brightest gifts that us reward Are those the givers can't afford.

_The Callers_

Who's dat knockin' at de do', Who's dat callin' here ter-day? What yo' want to see me fo'? Tell me what yo' got to say. What yo' name an' what yo' mean, Standin' out there in de gloam? Trouble, waitin' to come in? No sir, no sir, I ain't home!

Who's dat ringin' of de bell, Wakin' me in dead of night, When Ah was a-sleepin' well, Rousin' me wid such a fright? What yo' name and what yo' hurry? Seems to me yo're actin' queer. What's dat? Yo' is Mister Worry? No sir, no sir, I ain't here!

Who's dat waitin' at my do'? What yo' want a-hangin' round? Ain't yo' nebber gwine ter go? Jes' yo' quit dat knockin' sound. Tell me now jes' what yo' meant Callin' out my name dat way. What's dat? Yo' is Discontent? No sir, I ain't home ter-day!

Mornin'! Howdy, Mister Smile! Mornin' Sunshine, how yo' do? Ah'se been waitin' all de while Jes' ter get a call from you. Walk right in an' take a seat, Where's yo' brudder, Joy, ter-day? Jes' a-comin' down de street? Enter! Here's de place ter stay.

_Giuseppe Tomassi_

Giuseppe Tomassi ees stylisha chap, He wear da white collar an' cuff; He says: "For expanse I no giva da rap, Da basta ees not good enough." When out weeth hees Rosa he wear da silk hat, An' carry da cane lik' da lord; He spenda hees money lik' dees, an' lik' dat, For Giuseppe, he work at da Ford.

He smoke da seegar with da beega da band, Da tree-for-da-quart' ees da kind; Da diamond dat flash from da back of hees hand Ees da beegest Giuseppe could find. He dress up hees Rosa in satin an' lace, She no longer scrub at da board, But putta da paint on de leeps an' da face, For Giuseppe, he work at da Ford.

Giuseppe, ees strutta about lik' da king, An' laugh at da hard-worka man Who grinda da org' a few neekels to bring, Or sella da ripa banan'. Each morning he waxa da blacka moustache, Then walk up an' down through da ward; You betta he gotta da playnta da cash, For Giuseppe, he work at da Ford.

_Battle of Belleau Wood_

This poem was chosen by Major General John A. Lejeune, Commandant of the United States Marine Corps, as his favorite of all the Marine Corps verse written during the war.

It was thick with Prussian troopers, it was foul with German guns; Every tree that cast a shadow was a sheltering place for Huns. Death was guarding every roadway, death was watching every field, And behind each rise of terrain was a rapid-fire concealed; Uncle Sam's Marines had orders: "Drive the Boche from where they're hid. For the honor of Old Glory, take the woods!" And so they did.

I fancy none will tell it as the story should be told-- None will ever do full justice to those Yankee troopers bold-- How they crawled upon their stomachs through the fields of golden wheat, With the bullets spitting at them in that awful battle heat. It's a tale too big for writing; it's beyond the voice or pen, But it glows among the splendor of the bravest deeds of men.

It's recorded as a battle, but I fancy it will live As the brightest gem of courage human struggles have to give. Inch by inch, they crawled to victory toward the flaming mouths of guns; Inch by inch, they crawled to grapple with the barricaded Huns; On through fields that death was sweeping with a murderous fire, they went Till the Teuton line was vanquished and the German strength was spent.

Ebbed and flowed the tides of battle, as they've seldom done before; Slowly, surely, moved the Yankees against all the odds of war. For the honor of the fallen, for the glory of the dead, The living line of courage kept the faith and moved ahead. They'd been ordered not to falter, and when night came on they stood With Old Glory proudly flying o'er the trees of Belleau Wood.

_Partridge Time_

When Pa came home last night he had a package in his hand; "Now, Ma," said he, "I've something here which you will say is grand. A friend of mine got home to-day from hunting in the woods, He's been away a week or two, and got back with the goods. He had a corking string of birds--I wish you could have seen 'em!" "If you've brought any partridge home," said Ma, "you'll have to clean 'em."