Part 4
Used to think I'd like to go To the town I used to know As a little bare-foot lad, Tanned of cheek an' always glad. But it's been so long since I Told the good old friends good-bye An' set out for wealth an' fame, That it cannot be the same, An' maybe I'd better not Spoil the picture that I've got.
Bill's been back, an' he tells me Town's not what it used to be; That old Barker's grocery store Isn't open any more, An' most folks we knew are gone, Moved away or traveled on To a brighter realm than this; An' the girls we used to kiss An' go courtin' with, somehow Don't seem half so pretty now.
Folks have told me that the farm Where I lived has lost its charm An' they've paved the dusty street Which was velvet to our feet, An' it's now a thoroughfare With the hum of motors there; Wouldn't want to lose the joy That I've treasured from a boy-- Guess I'd better keep always Memories of those happier days.
I'm afraid of goin' back. Memory still keeps the track To those favorite haunts of mine Like a painted canvas fine, An' the old spots live with me Just the way they used to be; An' to see them now would seem Much like shattering a dream, So the town shall live with me Just the way it used to be.
_The Driver of the Truck_
I envy him his care-free way, I envy him his smile, The highway is his own domain, he rules it every mile; The king who drives about by day, sends couriers on ahead And buglers gay and soldiers brave, a path for him to spread; But he may go his way alone nor fear that he'll be struck, For monarch of the highway is the driver of the truck.
When I go driving down the road I must obey the rules, I must watch out for all who come, the sane men and the fools, And I must guard that car of mine with vigilance and care, For even trifling accidents might strand me then and there; But let who will bump into him, he's never out of luck, No pleasure car can ever stop the driver of the truck.
He sits his seat in confidence, serene and quite content, His heavy wheels are never dished, his axles never bent; A locomotive engineer might jolt him from his place, But nothing short of that would bring a tremor to his face. He laughs his cheerful way along, too big for men to buck, And even millionaires must dodge the driver of the truck.
Oh, kings and kaisers overthrown, who live in exile now, And princes of the royal blood whose heads have had to bow Before the people's mightier will, if you'd once more regain The arrogance of happier days before they closed your reign, You still can make the lowly flee and force the throngs to duck-- Just hustle out and get a job as driver of a truck.
_The Radio_
Since Pa put in the radio we have a lot of fun, We hustle to my room upstairs as soon as supper's done And Pa he tinkers with the discs to get it loud and clear, Then says: "Wait just a minute now, there's nothing yet to hear. Oh, now it's coming! Silence there! Now don't you move a thing. Say Ma, this is a marvelous age--a lady's going to sing!"
Then Ma she listens for awhile, as pleased as she can be And when I want to hear it, too, she says, "Don't bother me! Your turn comes next and sister's, too; don't jump around that way, I want to hear the orchestra--it's just begun to play. I wish you children wouldn't fuss, I'm sure I cannot hear While you are trying all the time to snatch it from my ear."
Then Pa takes up the thing awhile and says: "Oh, that's just great! A man is telling stories now. You kids will have to wait. It's wonderful to think his voice is floating in the air And people sitting in their homes can hear it everywhere-- All right, all right! It's your turn now. Perhaps this man will teach You youngsters how you should behave. A parson's going to preach."
Pa put that radio in for me--at least he told me so, But if it's really mine or not, is something I don't know, 'Coz Pa he wants it all himself, to hear the funny things, An' Ma must hear the concerts through when some great artist sings, But when the parson starts to talk on Selfishness an' Sin, Pa says: "Now it has come the time for you to listen in."
_The Yellow Dog_
It was a little yellow dog, a wistful thing to see, A homely, skinny, battered pup, as dirty as could be; His ribs were showing through his hide, his coat was thick with mud, And yet the way he wagged his tail completely captured Bud.
He had been kicked from door to door and stoned upon his way, "Begone!" was all he'd ever heard, 'twas all that folks would say; And yet this miserable cur, forever doomed to roam, Struck up a comradeship with Bud, who proudly brought him home.
I've never seen so poor a dog in all my stretch of years, The burrs were thick upon his tail and thick upon his ears; He'd had to fight his way through life and carried many a scar, But still Bud brought him home and cried: "Say, can I keep him, Ma?"
I think the homeless terrier knows that age is harsh and stern, And from the shabby things of life in scorn is quick to turn; And when some scrubby yellow dog needs sympathy and joy, He's certain of a friend in need, if he can find a boy.
_The Fairy and the Robin_
A fairy and a robin met Beside a bed of mignonette. The robin bowed and raised his hat, And smiled a smile as wide as--that-- Then said: "Miss Fairy, I declare, I'd kiss you, only I don't dare."
The fairy curtsied low and said: "Your breast is such a lovely red, And you are such a handsome thing, And, oh, such pretty songs you sing-- I'd gladly kiss you now, but I May only kiss a butterfly."
The robin spoke a silly word: "I'm sorry I was born a bird! Were I a fairy-man instead, Then you and I might some day wed." The fairy laughed and said: "My dear, God had to have some robins here.
"Be glad you're what you are and sing And cheer the people in the Spring. I play with children as I'm told, But you bring joy to young and old, And it seems always strange to me I'm one the old folks never see."
The robin spoke: "Perhaps it's best. I'll sing my songs and show my breast And be a robin, and you stay And share in all the children's play. God needs us both, so let us try To do our duty--you and I."
How do I know they said these things? I saw the robin spread his wings, I saw the fairy standing up Upon a golden buttercup, I hid myself behind a wall And listened close and heard it all.
_Good Night_
How many times we've said good night And kissed her as we turned away, Knowing that with the morning light She'd greet the beauty of the day.
We left her sleeping in her bed And tiptoed gently from her room, And when the soft "good night" was said, The parting brought no touch of gloom.
She would be there when we should rise, To greet us with her lovely smile-- The sunbeams dancing in her eyes, And night seemed such a little while.
Her spirit, till the break of day, Would leave this little world of ours For brighter realms wherein to play, Where fairies danced among the flowers.
Sometimes we watched her as she dreamed And knew that she was free from care, And always lovelier she seemed When morning found her smiling there.
"Good night, good night! sweet Marjorie!" We will be brave with you away. Some glad to-morrow there shall be, We'll come to you at break of day.
_The Man Who Gets Promoted_
The ordinary fellow does an ordinary task, He's mighty fond of "good enough" and lets it go at that; But the chap who gets promoted, or the raise he doesn't ask, Has just a little something more than hair beneath his hat.
The ordinary fellow lives an ordinary day, With the ordinary fellow he is anxious to be quit; But the chap who draws attention and the larger weekly pay, Has a vision for the future and is working hard for it.
He tackles every problem with the will to see it through, He does a little thinking of the work that comes to hand; His eyes are always open for the more that he can do, You never find him idle, merely waiting a command.
The ordinary fellow does precisely as he's told, But someone has to tell him what to do, and how, and when; But the chap who gets promoted fills the job he has to hold With just a little something more than ordinary men.
_The Lesson of the Crate_
It seemed an unimportant task, Too trifling for a chief to ask, A little thing, nor could he see The need to do it thoroughly; He fancied none could ever tell Whether he did it very well Or slighted it, yet, truth to say, On him depended much that day.
He was to nail a wooden crate, No chance in that for splendor great, No chance to prove his gift of skill, A thankless post was his to fill; Well nailed or not, 'twould be the same, The world would never learn his name-- And yet that wooden crate was filled With what had taken months to build.
He did not see or understand Just what was passing 'neath his hand-- That as that wooden crate was nailed, A plan succeeded or it failed; That miles away men stood in wait Depending on that simple crate, For not a wheel could turn or drive Until it safely should arrive.
He drove his nails, and let it go, Thinking that none would ever know Whose hand had held the hammer there Or, knowing it, would ever care; Yet in a few brief days there came The news that burned his cheeks with shame: "Broken in shipment and we stay Facing another month's delay."
Vain is the skill of workmen great; Unless the boy who makes the crate Shall give his best to driving nails, The work of all the others fails. There is no unimportant task. Whatever duty life may ask, On it depends the greater plan-- There is no unimportant man!
_Bill and I Went Fishing_
Bill and I went fishing. Quit our beds at four, Got a hasty breakfast and softly closed the door, Packed the bait and tackle, pushed the boat away, Took the oars and started--without a word to say.
Lake was smooth as crystal, sun was breaking through With a blaze of glory--old, but always new; Bill and I both watched it, grateful for the day, Spellbound by the beauty--but not a word to say.
Threw the anchor over, started in to fish, Heard the reels a-clicking, heard the wet lines swish, Now and then we'd get one big enough to play, Sport and plenty of it--but not a word to say.
Bill was busy dreaming, I was thinking, too, Lazy-like and wondering what makes skies so blue; Puffed our pipes in silence, let our minds just stray 'Round and 'round about us--but not a word to say.
Got back home that evening, happy as could be, I was proud of William, he was proud of me, Just the pal for fishing. Here's the common touch-- Said it of each other--"Never talks too much."
_Easter_
They found the great stone rolled away And Him whom men had crucified, With cruel spears had pierced His side And mocked with jests and gibes that day, Gone from the darkness and the gloom Of Death's grim tomb.
Where He had slept in Death's embrace The linen of His shroud was piled, And white-robed angels gently smiled And bade them walk into the place. "The Lord is risen!" to them they said, "He is not dead."
Keep ye the faith and still be brave! From every tomb that Easter day The stone of death was rolled away; The soul lives on beyond the grave, Death is but rest from pain and strife-- The gate to life!
_October_
October and the crimsoned trees, The smell of smoke upon the breeze, The morning mist and autumn's chill, The brown of death upon the hill-- And yet, a sense of loveliness Which pen or brush cannot express.
A strange, mysterious calm which seems The canvas of a thousand dreams; The calm of duty nobly done, The peace of battles truly won, The joy with which all hearts are thrilled, A sense of promises fulfilled.
Beyond October winter waits To pile its snow before the gates; What men call death shall hurl its stroke Alike at plant or giant oak-- And yet beneath the snowdrifts deep We know the violets merely sleep.
Mankind has its October, too, When little more there is to do, And we may claim the sweet content Of strength that has been nobly spent-- And yet we fear, when comes the snow, There is no spring where we shall go.
October with its lovely breath Voices the cry: there is no death! Men read it in a thousand ways; We see beyond the mist and haze Which shroud the hills and valleys deep, That all shall wake who fall asleep.
_Mother and the Styles_
Dresses high and dresses low, Fashion bids them come and go; Tresses bobbed and tresses long, Fashion sways the moving throng; What was new becomes the old, Thus this changing life is told. First we view it with a smile, Then adopt the latest style-- But with all the passing days, Mothers never change their ways.
Gay of heart and bright of face, Fashion seems to rule the place. With the swinging of the clock Youth gives Age another shock, Flaunting into public view Something Age would never do, Laughing at us when we preach, Scornful of us when we teach-- But with all of fashion's wiles, Mothers never change their styles.
Motherhood's no fickle thing, To be changed each fall and spring; As it was, so it remains, Spite of all its cares and pains. Joy may call and pleasure lure But a mother's love is pure, And the baby sinks to rest, Pillowed on her lovely breast, Closing little drowsy eyes To the softest lullabies.
Mothers worry night and day When their children are away; Mothers grieve when they are ill, Always have and always will. They would shield you with their care Every day and every where, And they're happy through and through At the slightest smile from you-- To the ending of their days Mothers never change their ways.
_High Chair Days_
High chair days are the best of all, Or so they seem to me, Days when tumbler and platter fall And the King smiles merrily; When the regal arms and the regal feet A constant patter of music beat, And the grown-ups bow in a gracious way To the high chair monarch who rules the day.
High chair days, and the throne not dressed In golden or purple hues But an old style thing, let it be confessed, His grandmother used to use; Its legs are scarred and a trifle bowed, But the king who sits on the chair is proud, And he throws his rattle and silver cup For the joy of making us pick them up.
The old high chair in the dining room Is a handsomer thing by far Than the costly chairs in the lonely gloom Of the childless mansions are, For the sweetest laughter the world has known Comes day by day from that humble throne, And the happiest tables, morn and night, Have a high chair placed at the mother's right.
The old high chair is a joy sublime, Yet it brings us its hour of pain, For we've put it away from time to time, Perhaps never to need again; Yet God was good, and the angles tapped, And again was the old high chair unwrapped, And proud was I when I heard the call To bring it back to the dining hall.
There are griefs to meet and cares to face Through the years that lie ahead; The proudest monarch must lose his place And lie with the splendid dead; I know there are blows I shall have to meet, I must pay with the bitter for all life's sweet, But I live in dread of that coming day When forever the high chair goes away.
_Whooping Cough_
There is a reason, I suppose, for everything which comes-- Why youngsters fall from apple trees and babies suck their thumbs; And though I can't explain it all, when trouble comes I know That since by Providence 'tis willed, it must be wiser so. But knowing this, I still insist we'd all be better off If little children could escape the dreaded whooping cough.
I never see a red-faced child in spasms violent But what I wonder why to babes such suffering is sent. Though mumps and measles, chicken pox and scarlet fever, too, Beset the lives of those I love, I still can see them through; But terror seems to chill my blood the minute that I hear That awful sign that someone's child with whooping cough is near.
Old women say it has to be, but I grow pale as death When I behold a boy or girl in anguish fight for breath. They tell me not to be alarmed, but I'm not made of steel, And every touch of agony the youngster has, I feel; And could I run this world of ours, the first thing I'd cut off From all the things which have to be, would be the whooping cough.
_Over the Crib_
Over the crib where the baby lies, Countless beautiful visions rise Which only the mothers and fathers see, Pictures of laughter and joy and song As the years come sweeping us all along. Care seldom startles the happy eyes Over the crib where the baby lies.
A wonderful baby lying there! And strangers smile at the happy pair, Proud and boastful, for all they see Is the dimpled chin and the dimpled knee; But never a little one comes to earth That isn't a wonderful babe at birth, And never a mother who doesn't see Glorious visions of joy to be.
Over the crib where the baby lies, Dreams of splendor and pride arise, Deeds of valor and deeds of love Hover about and shine above The tiny form, and the future glows With a thousand dreams which the mother knows, And beauty dances before her eyes Over the crib where the baby lies.
Yet we smile at her and we smile at him, For we are old and our eyes are dim And we have forgotten and don't recall Yet world-wide over the mothers dream The visions we saw when our babes were small, And ever they see in a golden stream, Wonderful joys in the by-and-by Over the cribs where their babies lie.
_Grass and Children_
I used to want a lovely lawn, a level patch of green, For I have marveled many times at those that I have seen, And in my early dreams of youth the home that I should keep Possessed a lawn of beauty rare, a velvet carpet deep, But I have changed my mind since then--for then I didn't know That where the feet of children run the grass can never grow.
Now I might own a lovely lawn, but I should have to say To all the little ones about, "Go somewhere else to play!" And I should have to stretch a wire about my garden space And make the home where gladness reigns, a most forbidding place. By stopping all the merriment which now is ours to know, In time, beyond the slightest doubt, the tender grass would grow.
But oh, I want the children near, and so I never say, When they are romping around the home, "Go somewhere else to play!" And though my lawn seems poorly kept, and many a spot is bare, I'd rather see, than growing grass, the youngsters happy there. I've put aside the dream I had in that far long ago-- I'd rather have a playground than a place for grass to grow.
_The Hills of Faith_
The hills are in the mist to-day, Their purple robes are put away. Like coast guards in their yellow coats They face the driving rain; Like coast guards in their yellow coats, Who watch the sea for ship-wrecked boats, They watch the land for human craft In trouble on the plain.
The gray clouds rush among their peaks, Some weakness there the storm-king seeks. A frightened boulder breaks away And rolls into the glen; A tree is crushed to earth again, But staunch and brave the hills remain, A symbol of unfaltering faith To all the hosts of men.
Time was the hills were tinged with gold, About them seas of crimson rolled, A gentle beauty graced their brows As delicate as May Who comes with blossoms in her hair. They laughed away the summer there, But now sublimely stern they stand, Attired in somber gray.
Symbols of strength, unmoved they keep Their place against the winds that sweep; Defenders of our coast of faith, They signal to us all That what is strong and best and true Shall breast the gale and live it through To greet the birth of spring again And hear the song bird's call.
_Last Night the Baby Cried_
Last night the baby cried. And I, Roused from a sound and soothing sleep, Wondered to hear that little cry. For ten long years in slumber deep I've lived my nights, and so it seemed That what I'd heard I'd only dreamed.
For ten long years a banging gate, The milkman's whistle, or the horn Of motors driven at rapid rate, Have wakened me at early dawn; But late last night awake was I, Thinking I'd heard a baby cry.
I leaned upon my elbow there And wondered did I dream or not? But once again upon the air The call came from her tiny cot! Then peacefully I turned and smiled To hear the crying of our child.
Lonely and still the house has seemed For ten long years, but once again We have the joy of which we'd dreamed-- The joy which many seek in vain! Oh, happy, happy home, thought I, That wakes to hear a baby cry.
_The True Critic_
There is one critic which a man should heed And strive with all his strength to satisfy; Whether it be in big or little deed, One sits in judgment with a watchful eye.
One voice there is which flatters not for gain Nor censures honest effort as a pose, One voice which never speaks to cause us pain, Nor seeks to tell the world how much it knows.
Yet if it tell us we have done our best, Have kept the faith and labored to be true, We can lie down at night in peace to rest Nor mind what others say or think or do.
If but this eye which reads our inmost thought See no dishonor in the stand we take, If but this voice can praise the fight we've fought, We need not heed the storm that critics make.
If we but live with Conscience as our guide, We rob the colder critics of their sting; If but that voice of us can speak in pride, We need not heed the barbs which others fling.
If it can say we've truly done our best, And call our motives worthy, though we fail, We then can turn our faces to the west, Scorning the lesser critics who assail.
_A Song in Everything_
There is a song in everything, In every little care that comes, In babies as they suck their thumbs, The tunes the brave canaries sing, The mother's patient, gentle smile, The glory of the after-while.
There is no sadness but is sweet With fragrance, and there is no day But spreads some beauty on life's way; The dusty and the weary feet Upon their homeward journey bring Delights which loving hearts may sing.
The high chair and the cradle, too, Have ever set brave lips to song; No grief has ever lived so long But turned to music as it grew, And every hour of strife and pain Leaves in the heart some sweet refrain.
Lord, teach me this, from day to day, To find beyond the hurt and care Thy mercy shining everywhere; Let me rejoice that children play, And know when bitter tempests sting There is a song in everything.
_Triumph_
Back of every golden dream. Every engine hissing steam, Back of every hammer falling And of every deed men dare; Back of every tilt and fight Is the coming home at night To the loved ones who are waiting In the victory to share.