Part 5
When all is said and done And the battle's lost or won, It's the laughter of the children And the mother's gentle smile, It's the pride of those you know, Good old friends who love you so, That make the prize worth having And the victory worth while.
'Tis not in success alone That achievement's worth is known. If we had no friends to cheer us And no one at home to care; If man's glory as a fighter Did not make a few eyes brighter He would cease to try for conquest And would never do or dare.
Back of every man you'll find Loving hearts who stay behind, Watching, waiting, patient, loyal, As he strives to meet the test, And the thought which drives him daily Is that they shall meet him gayly, And shall glory in his triumph On the day he does his best.
_Ships_
To-day, if I were free, I think I'd wander to the river's brink And watch the great ships steaming by-- The stream below, above the sky-- And see those vessels bearing then The countless hopes of mortal men.
And I could lie upon the shore And glimpse the mother at the door Watching and waiting, every trip, To see the coming of the ship, For that great hull which carries grain Also brings home her boy again.
I wonder if the wheelsman knows, As he the guiding rudder throws, How many hopes and dreams and fears Are burdened in the ship he steers? Depending on his watchful eyes The laughter of a lifetime lies.
Men write his cargo down as ore, Or grain or coal, but it is more-- It's women's smiles and women's tears And little children's happy years, For human destines await The safe arrival of his freight.
We are but smaller packet ships Set out upon our various trips, Chartered for gold, or skill or fame, Listed and registered by name, Yet burdened with the smiles and tears Our own must know throughout the years.
The women and the children wait For us each evening at the gate, Glad when we safely come from town And desolate if we go down. Bitter their years if we shall fail To hold the course and breast the gale.
_Mother's Way_
Tender, gentle, brave and true, Loving us whate'er we do! Waiting, watching at the gate For the footsteps that are late, Sleepless through the hours of night Till she knows that we're all right; Pleased with every word we say-- That is every mother's way.
Others sneer and turn aside. Mother welcomes us with pride; Over-boastful of us, too, Glorying in all we do, First to praise and last to blame, Love that always stays the same, Following us where'er we stray-- That is every mother's way.
She would grant us all we seek, Give her strength where we are weak. Beauty? She would let it go For the joy we yearn to know. Life? She'd give it gladly, too, For the dream that we pursue; She would toil that we might play-- That is every mother's way.
Not enough for her are flowers-- Her life is so blent with ours That in all we dare and do She is partner, through and through; Suffering when we suffer pain, Happy when we smile again, Living with us, night and day-- That is every mother's way.
_Life Needs Us All_
There is so much that we can do-- A kind word spoken here and there Will ease another's weight of care; Life needs us all. The splendid few Who rise to fame, with all their skill Your post and mine can never fill.
If we who have not wealth or fame Should fail in all our little deeds, The world would sink beneath its needs. Not by the greatness of a name, Nor by the splendor of success, Are hearts restored to happiness.
About us all are those who need The gifts which we have power to give; We can be friendly while we live And by some thoughtful, kindly deed, Can help another on his way-- And that is service, come what may.
What though we miss the heights of skill, The splendor of the greater few, There is so much that we can do; There is a place which we can fill-- Always about us while we live Are those who need what we can give.
_A Certain Man_
I cherish the picture of a man Who has not been, but is to be. His cheek is bronzed by the summer tan And his smile is fair to see. His word is good and his heart is true And he loves the old red, white and blue.
I vision him oft, and where'er he goes Glad voices give him a warm hello. The trust of the little ones he knows And respect of friend or foe-- For never the scarlet mark of shame Has marred his record or touched his name.
He walks the world in a kindly way. He laughs when the jest is fair. The wide outdoors is his field of play And he loves the beauties there. He hears God's word in the whispering trees And the song of birds and the drone of bees.
I talk to him oft when the night is still, I think of him day by day; He hasn't arrived, but I pray he will When his youth has passed away. And what is his name and who is he? The man that I hope my son will be.
_What a Father Wants to Know_
You would take my girl away! What is there that I can say Save the things all fathers think, Seldom put in printer's ink? Little care I for your fame, Or the glory you may claim, Or the fortune you may earn; These are not my deep concern-- This I really want to know, Will you always love her so?
It is fine enough to tell That to-day you're doing well; I appreciate your skill And I think some day you will Climb the ladder of success To your lasting happiness; But if all this should be had And my little girl be sad, I'd regret my whole life through Having given her to you.
Will you always love her so? That is what I want to know. Will you comfort her and stay At her side from day to day? Knowing she must bear your name, Will you shield her from all shame? This the burden on my mind, Will you thoughtful be and kind? All that matters is to know That you'll always love her so.
_The Luckless Fisherman_
They laughed when I came home last night And said I didn't get a bite; They snickered an' they joked at me, And all the fellows asked to see The ones I'd caught, "Oho!" said they, "He's been out fishing all this day An' hasn't caught a single thing, He never got a fish to string."
They laughed at me, but all their jeers Traveled no further than my ears. 'Twas true I'd fished all day without Snaring a single speckled trout, But what of that? I'd had a day That I could loaf and dream away, I'd chummed with birds and friendly trees And been as care-free as the breeze.
I'd rested wheresoe'er I'd willed, To me the hum of trade was stilled, I'd let my thoughts go wandering far To where life's happier glories are; I'd whistled like a boy once more, And even stretched full length on shore To watch the white clouds sail the blue, The very way I used to do.
They laughed when I came home at night And said I didn't get a bite. They seemed to think my luck was bad. They couldn't guess the fun I'd had And couldn't know that all that day I'd been a free man, blithe and gay, And though of fish I'd landed none, I'd caught the joys for which I'd gone.
_Consolation_
"It is all for the best," so they said As I stood by my dead. But I doubted the word That so often I heard; I could catch but the moan Of the mother, alone, And feel but the blow Which had stricken us so.
"Why," I cried, "should it be God must so punish me? Why should my baby die When are hundreds near by, Old and feeble of breath, Waiting only for death?" And they answered me low: "God has ordered it so."
But to-day, through the years That have ended our tears, We have memories rare That no others may share; We can look back and see Why the blow had to be-- By that mound and its sod, We are closer to God.
_If It's Worth While_
If it's worth while, then it's worth a few blows, Worth a few setbacks and worth a few bruises; If it's worth while--and it is, I suppose-- It's worth keeping on, though the first struggle loses.
If it's worth while, then it's worth a good fight, Worth a few bouts with the demon, Disaster, Worth going after with courage and might, Worth keeping on till you've proved you are master.
If it's worth while, then it's worth a few pains, Worth a few heartaches and worth a few sorrows, Worth clinging fast to the hope that remains, Worth going on through the doubtful to-morrows.
Stand to the battle and see the test through, Pay all you have in endurance and might for it; If it's worth while and a good thing to do, Then it is worth all it costs in the fight for it.
_The Letter_
The postman whistled down the street And seemed to walk on lighter feet, And as he stepped inside her gate He knew he carried precious freight; He knew that day he carried joy-- He had the letter from her boy.
Day after day he'd kept his pace And seen her careworn, gentle face. She watched for him to come and took The papers with an anxious look, But disappointment followed hope-- She missed the one glad envelope.
He stopped to chat with her awhile And saw the sadness of her smile, He fancied he could hear her sigh The morning that he traveled by; He knew that when to-morrow came She would be waiting just the same.
The boy who was so far away Could never hear her gently say: "Well, have you brought good news to me?" Her eager face he could not see, Or note the lines of anxious care As every day she waited there.
But when he wrote, on lighter feet The happy postman walked the street. "Well, here it is, at last," he'd shout, "To end the worry and the doubt." The robin on the maple limb Began to sing: "She's heard from him."
Her eyes with joy began to glow, The neighbors round her seemed to know That with the postman at the door Sweet peace had come to her once more. When letters bring so much delight, Why do the sons forget to write?
_The Tower Clock_
Day after day the clock in the tower Strikes on its resonant bell, the hour. Telling the throngs in the city block Once again it's ten o'clock! Day after day, and the crowds pass on, Till they and another hour have gone.
I heard it first as an eager lad, The largest clock which the city had, And it rang the hour in the self-same way That it rings it out for the town to-day, And many who heard it then have gone, Gone like the days that have journeyed on.
Mighty and many the throngs have grown, Many the changes the town has known, But the old clock still in its tower stands, Telling the hour with its silent hands; And the great pass by and they come no more, But the bell still rings as it did of yore.
And I think to-day as I hear it ring That the fame men crave is a fleeting thing. Unchanged, unswayed by the pomps men praise, The old clock high in its tower stays, Sounding the hours for the great and low As it sounded them in the long ago.
So when the throngs that are here pass by And the pride of to-day in the dust shall lie, When the new crowds come in their search for power, The self-same clock in the self-same tower Shall still ring out in the city block, For them, as for us, it is ten o'clock.
_The Busy Summer Cottage_
Our friends have automobiles now. The summer cottage where we went To rest beside the water's blue in peace and indolent content Is but an hour's swift ride away. So bright and early Sunday morn Before the breakfast eggs are cooked, we hear the honking of the horn.
We must have bathing suits for ten, although our family numbers four; Beds must be made for all who come, though father sleeps upon the floor; Dishes and knives and forks and spoons are gathered in one huge display, For we must be prepared to feed the visitors who come our way.
From Friday noon till Monday morn full many a weary trip I take, Rowing the women and their babes upon the bosom of the lake; And by that law which rules a host I'm at the mercy of the crew, I must, until they say good-bye, do everything they wish to do.
The chef in yonder large hotel is not a busier man than I, The fish for fifteen hungry mouths it is my duty now to fry, And thus my glad vacation time from dawn to dusk is filled with chores, For friends have made our resting spot the busiest place in all outdoors.
_Good Enough_
My son, beware of "good enough," It isn't made of sterling stuff; It's something any man can do, It marks the many from the few, It has no merit to the eye, It's something any man can buy, Its name is but a sham and bluff, For it is never "good enough."
With "good enough" the shirkers stop In every factory and shop; With "good enough" the failures rest And lose to men who give their best; With "good enough" the car breaks down And men fall short of high renown. My son, remember and be wise, In "good enough" disaster lies.
With "good enough" have ships been wrecked, The forward march of armies checked, Great buildings burned and fortunes lost; Nor can the world compute the cost In life and money it has paid Because at "good enough" men stayed. Who stops at "good enough" shall find Success has left him far behind.
There is no "good enough" that's short Of what you can do and you ought. The flaw which may escape the eye And temporarily get by, Shall weaken underneath the strain And wreck the ship or car or train, For this is true of men and stuff-- Only the best is "good enough."
_The Chimney Piece_
I would not, if I could, recall some customs that are gone. I'm glad that wreath of immortelles I need not look upon-- That cold, imperishable thing of wax, in colors gay. Which hung upon the parlor wall in Grandma's earlier day, No longer shrieks its warning grim that mortal life must cease-- And yet I'm sorry we have lost the old-time chimney piece.
The modern mantel, I admit, is striking to the eye, And yet it lacks the wealth of charm we knew in days gone by; For on the little marble shelf above the grate fire's glow Were all the sacred treasures of the homestead in a row, The pictures and the onyx clock, the globe of native birds, Which told the things we loved the most in clearer speech than words.
There Mother kept in tenderness the trinkets of the years, The tokens of her happier days, the symbols of her tears; The glossy cabinet photographs, the candlesticks of brass, The picture of Niagara Falls blown into heavy glass, And there above the grate fire's glow, for every eye to see, Were all the sacred treasures from her book of memory.
But Time has swept these things away, the mantel now is bare. The attic dust lies thick upon the joys once valued there; The photographs are stored away, the birds long since have flown, Nor is it now good form to show the treasured things we own, For when the newer customs come, the ones of old must cease, And yet I'm sorry that we had to lose the chimney piece.
_The Crocus_
A yellow crocus bloomed today. Where all is dead and bleak and bare, It flashed its light along the way And radiantly twinkled there.
Out of the darkness and the gloom, Braving the blizzard's bitter sting, There came this golden bit of bloom To herald the advancing spring.
"Hold out! Hold out!" it seemed to say, "Soon must the siege of winter fall, The daffodils are on their way, The hyacinths have heard you call.
"Behind me comes a countless throng Of bigger, braver blooms than I; The woods shall shortly ring with song, Spring's glorious army draweth nigh."
A yellow crocus flashed today Its torch of faith for all to see-- The troops of spring are on the way, The captive earth will soon be free.
_My Goals_
A little braver when the skies are gray, A little stronger when the road seems long, A little more of patience through the day, And not so quick to magnify a wrong.
A little kinder, both of thought and deed, A little gentler with the old and weak, Swifter to sense another's pressing need, And not so fast the hurtful phrase to speak.
These are my goals--not flung beyond my power, Not dreams of glory, beautiful but vain, Not the great heights where buds of genius flower, But simple splendors which I ought to gain.
These I can do and be from day to day Along the humble pathway where I plod, So that at last when I am called away I need not make apologies to God.
_The Carpet on the Stairs_
Let others sing in modern ways, it's joy enough for me To sing in good old-fashioned rhyme the days that used to be. The page of boyhood's scribbled full with things we used to do, The fun we had, the games we played, the little tasks we knew, And back to mind there comes today the hardest of our cares, That springtime job of putting down the carpet on the stairs.
Housecleaning time meant weary legs and hands and aching backs, For no more tedious job there is than driving carpet tacks. Then mother told us what to do, and on our hands and knees We stretched and hauled and pulled and tugged and did our best to please; But, oh! I well remember now one task which patience wears, That awkward, muscle straining job of carpeting the stairs.
We'd start upon the topmost step and let the carpet roll, But then began a feat of strength to try the bravest soul. The corners must be folded so and stretched and firmly tacked, With mother watching every move as down the stairs we backed; And many a time we've reached the end, discovering there and then It wouldn't do at all that way and must be laid again.
No more we break our finger nails and set our knees on fire In stretching carpets on the floors, no more our muscles tire; No more the mother stands above our bended forms to see That every tack is driven home the way it ought to be. The times are very different now, and no one ever shares The joy and pain of long ago, while carpeting the stairs.
_Horse and Cutter Days_
Winters are not what they used to be in the cities of haste and rush; The snow is white for a little while, then turns to an ugly slush. And the rapid wheels of the motor cars grind all of its beauty down-- But I long for the horse and cutter days we knew in the little town.
Then the world stayed white for a month or two and the snow drifts higher grew And cheeks were pink with the glow of health and the joys we youngsters knew, Then sleigh bells added a merry lilt to the cold and crispy air And youth and maid in an open sleigh were always a happy pair.
We hitched a ride to the runners strong and the snow flew from our feet, But it's dangerous now to hitch a ride on the dark and crowded street, And the raucous honk of the motor horn has banished the sleigh bell's song, For winter days are cheerless now and winter nights are long.
Perhaps it's well that our customs change and good that we travel on, But blent with the smiles of our newer joys are sighs for the pleasures gone, And I sometimes long for the drifted snow and the white and frosty ways, For the cheeks of pink and the laughter gay of our horse and cutter days.
_The Old-Time Lilac Bush_
A lilac bush is a lovely thing Wherever it blossoms in early spring, But I have a tenderer regard For the old-time bush in an old-time yard, With the house near-by and the youngsters flown, And the old folks living there all alone, For always I fancy I can see The visions that cling to the lilac tree.
The house still stands, but the walls are still, And the storms have battered each window sill; There's a tired, worn look on the humble place, Like the weary look on the mother's face, Yet somehow or other I seem to know That joy reigned here in the long ago, And somehow or other I seem to see The dreams which cling to the lilac tree.
Time was those feeble hands were strong And the faltering footsteps danced along; Time was youth romped in that lonely place, But never the years will halt their pace, And the young must go, but the old will cling To the home they've loved to the final Spring, For they hear the laughter that used to be, When the bloom comes back to the lilac tree.
A lilac bush is a lovely thing Wherever it blossoms in early spring, But, bent with age and the smiles and tears Which come to all with the passing years, It seems to me that it wears the glow Of the golden days of the long ago, For all that remains of the youth long gone Is the lilac tree still blossoming on.
_A Boy's Feet_
I got a cowlick, an' it stands Up straight, an' I got dirty hands, An' if it shows a single speck I have to go an' wash my neck, An' every day Ma squints an' peers To see if I have washed my ears; But I ain't ever really neat All on account of havin' feet.
These feet of mine are always wrong, I mustn't shuffle 'em along Or kick a stone that's in the way, Or if I do someone will say: "I wish you'd lift your feet a bit; The way you walk gives me a fit! Those shoes were new a week ago An' now you've busted out the toe."
They're always peckin' at me, too, For standin' like the fellers do. An' just because my toes turn in, The teacher makes the pupils grin By tellin' me ten times a day: "Please turn your toes the other way!" An' even when I'm in my seat She kicks if I just swing my feet.
If I get nervous an' I put One shoe upon the other foot, Or scrape the floor, they say: "My land! Is that the way a boy should stand?" An' if I rest 'em on a chair, Ma says: "Don't put your feet up there!" An' if I sit on them they roar: "Please put your feet upon the floor!"
I'm gettin' tired of all this talk About the way I stand or walk, An' anyhow it seems to me, At least as far as I can see, My feet aren't any different than The other fellers 'round here, an' Some day my temper will explode-- It ain't my fault I'm pigeon-toed.
_Old-Fashioned Remedies_
Taking medicine to-day isn't what it used to be. Castor oil is castor oil, but they've banished senna tea, And they've sugar coated now all the bitter things we took, Mother used to brew for us from the family doctor book. Now I tell that boy of mine when he starts to make a fuss, He is lucky not to be taking what they gave to us.
Seems the kitchen stove back then always had a pan or two Brewing up a remedy for the ailments which we knew, Something mother said we'd need surely in a little while, Senna tea for stomach ills and its brother, camomile; But I vow the worst of all remedies they gave to me Was that gummy, sticky stuff known and served as flaxseed tea.
Boy, put down that little pill, take your powders and be glad You're not getting what they gave when your father was a lad. Mother's hand was gentle, but rough and hard it seemed to be When she sat beside my bed rubbing goose-grease into me. Getting well is easy now. Take your medicine and smile, You are lucky that it's not senna tea or camomile.
_The Tumbler at the Sink_
The houses of the rich folks are very fine to see, But after all I fancy they'd never do for me-- For a butler guards the doorway, and a staff of servants wait To gratify your slightest wish, like messengers of state. They're there to do your bidding, and should you want a drink They'll never let you get it from the tumbler at the sink.