Part 6
Now it may be I'm old fashioned, but to really feel at home, I like to be permitted all around the house to roam, And I like to find the kitchen, with the towel upon the door, And the gayly colored picture from the corner grocery store. There's a comfortable feeling which the great folks miss, I think, In drinking, when you're thirsty, from the tumbler at the sink.
There's a charm about the kitchen which no other room can boast, And when you think about it, it's the one we need the most. It is there we find her smiling when we come back home at night, There the children dance about her as they're pleading for a bite, And it's there that eyes are brightest, cheeks the pinkest of the pink, And it's there, for all the thirsty, there's the tumbler at the sink.
_The Garden Catalogue_
There's never frost nor blight nor weeds, Nor neighbor's chickens, cats or dogs, To ruin all the tender seeds That flourish in the catalogues; The humblest vine that's planted there Blossoms without the slightest care.
There are no withered stalks to see, No pitiful attempts to thrive, No shrub that struggles desperately To catch the sun and stay alive. In catalogues the larkspur seems To match the gardener's fondest dreams.
The red geranium is strong, Its clump of blossom full and round, No windstorm ever comes along To sweep the cosmos to the ground, No youngster ever bats a ball Among the roses, straight and tall.
I turn the pages o'er and o'er And see the pansies dark as wine, And think, as I have thought before, These are superior to mine; In my poor garden, never yet Has bloomed such lovely mignonette.
Since pansies have the storms to face And men must battle day by day, They cannot wear the charm and grace Their printed catalogues display; Life is much sterner than it looks And scars are seldom shown in books.
_Here on the Earth_
Here is where the blows are struck, Here is where the wrong is done, Here are toilers in the muck; Here beneath the shining sun, Pain and hurt and sin abide, Here is where our souls are tried.
What's beyond I cannot say, Save my faith that all is well; There the wrongs are cast away, There in peace the angels dwell, But this life on earth and sea Holds so much that need not be.
I would not remain afar Thinking only of my soul; Here where hungry children are, Here where hatred mars the scroll, Thought and time and strength I'd give Bettering this life we live.
Not to-morrow, but to-day, I would serve another's need, I would smooth another's way, Bind the cruel wounds that bleed; Death will soothe the weary brow, But my hand would smooth it now.
Life has need of kindly men, Just, courageous, true and brave, But that need is ended when Comes the sexton to the grave; Let me, then, my duty face, Making earth a happier place.
Let me serve the living here, Not the dead across the bar, Let me carry hope and cheer Where the sad and hopeless are; Angels wait upon the dead-- Let me smooth the path men tread.
_I Mustn't Forget_
I mustn't forget that I'm gettin' old-- That's the worst thing ever a man can do. I must keep in mind without bein' told That old ideas must give way to new. Let me be always upon my guard Never a crabby old man to be, Youth is too precious to have it marred By the cranky whims of a man like me.
I must remember that customs change An' I've had my youth an' my hair is gray, Mustn't be too surprised at strange Or startlin' things that the youngsters say; Mustn't keep the bit in their mouths too tight, Which is something old people are apt to do. What used to be wrong may to-day be right An' it may not be wrong just becoz it's new.
Want 'em to like me an' want 'em to know That I need their laughter an' mirth an' song, An' I want 'em near, 'coz I love 'em so, An' home is the place where their smiles belong. They're growin' up, an' it seems so queer To hear them talk of the views they hold, But age with youth shouldn't interfere An' I mustn't forget that I'm gettin' old.
_Old-Fashioned Dinners_
It wasn't too much work for her in the days of long ago To get a dinner ready for a dozen friends or so; The mother never grumbled at the cooking she must do Or the dusting or the sweeping, but she seemed to smile it through, And the times that we were happiest, beyond the slightest doubt, Were when good friends were coming and we stretched the table out.
We never thought, when we were young, to take our friends away And entertain them at a club or in some swell cafe; When mother gave a dinner, she would plan it all herself And feed the people that she liked, the best things on the shelf. Then one job always fell to me, for I was young and stout, I brought the leaves to father when he stretched the table out.
That good old-fashioned table. I can see it still to-day With its curious legs of varnished oak round which I used to play; It wasn't much to look at, not as stylish or refined Or as costly or as splendid as the oval, modern kind, But it always had a welcome for our friends to sit about, And though twenty guests were coming, we could always stretch it out.
I learned it from my mother--it is foolish pride to roam, The only place to entertain your friends is right at home. Just let them in by dozens, let them laugh and sing and play And come to love and know them in the good old-fashioned way; Home's the place for fun and friendship, home's the place where joy may shout, And if you crowd our dining room, we'll stretch the table out.
_The Dreamer_
The road lay straight before him, but the by-paths smiled at him And the scarlet poppies called him to the forests cool and dim, And the song birds' happy chorus seemed to lure him further on; 'Twas a day of wondrous pleasure--but the day was quickly gone.
He could not resist the laughter and the purling of a brook Any more than gray old sages can resist some dusty book, And though stern-faced duty bade him march the highway straight ahead, "The trees are better company than busy men," he said.
We wondered at his dreaming and his wanderings far astray, But we were counting values by the gold and silver way, And sometimes as I saw him gazing idly at the sky, I fancied he had pleasures of a sort I couldn't buy.
I fancy he saw something in the clouds above the trees Which the gold and glory seeker passes by and never sees, And I think he gathered something from the woods and running streams Which is just as good as money to the man of many dreams.
_Hot Mince Pie_
I stood upon the coping of the tallest building known And tried to walk that dangerous ledge, bare-footed and alone. I started very bravely, then I turned to look behind And saw a demon coming of the most ferocious kind; He bade me get a move on, and I started in to run And I slipped and lost my balance, and I knew that I was done.
I had a wild encounter with a mad and awful beast, His eyes were bulged with malice, for he'd picked me for a feast. I tried to scream, but couldn't. Then he growled a fearful note And gave one spring towards me and his fangs sank in my throat, One gulp and it was over--it was much too black to see, But I knew beyond all question that the end had come for me.
I tumbled from an aeroplane and looped and looped around, And was twenty-seven minutes on my journey to the ground; I bumped a dozen steeples on my perilous descent And left as many flagstaffs either snapped in two or bent-- But when I woke, in terror, I discovered with a sigh How much of real excitement lurks in mother's hot mince pie.
_The Laughing Boy_
Always seeing the funny side, That's the glorious way of him. Rollin' his head, with his mouth stretched wide, As quick to laugh as a duck to swim; Whatever you say or whatever you do, He'll answer you back with a chuckle or two.
Laughing from mornin' till night, it seems, Just chock full of the gift o' fun, An' the angels send him their comic dreams So's he can grin for 'em every one, An' his grandma says when he laughs her down, He's the disrespectfullest boy in town.
Laughed at the prayer that the preacher spoke The night Ma asked him to come for tea; Seemed to think it was all a joke, An' he actually winked his eye at me. His ears are keen an' his mind is quick An' his grin is ready for every trick.
"What'll we do?" says Ma to me, "With a boy like that who won't behave?" An' I answer back: "We'll let him be. Old folks' faces are far too grave, An' it's good for us all to have the joy An' the rollickin' mirth of a laughin' boy."
_Apples Ripe for Eating_
Apples ripe for eating, and the grate fire blazing high, And outside the moon of autumn fairly swimming in the sky; The cellar packed with good things from the vine and field and tree-- Oh, the speech of man can't tell it, but it somehow seems to me With such warmth and cheer around us, we should all burst into song And store enough of gladness now to last our whole lives long.
Apples ripe for eating--there's a joy beyond compare To pay for all our trouble and the burdens we must bear! The bowl upon the table filled with round and rosy cheeks, And enough down in the cellar to last all the winter weeks, So that when the bowl is empty we can fill it up again-- And in spite of that we grumble and we bitterly complain.
I sometimes sit and wonder as we pack life's fruits away And hoard them in the cellar for the bleak and wintry day, Why the mind of man has never tried to store a stock of cheer In the cellar of his memory for the barren time of year, So that when joy's bowl is emptied and he thinks that life is vain, He can seek his hoard of pleasures and just fill it up again.
Apples ripe for eating and a stock of them below For the long cold nights of winter we shall shortly come to know, So that when we need a pleasure that will seem to soothe the soul We can wander to the cellar and fill up the apple bowl; So we could, if we were mindful, when our hearts with grief are sad, Refresh our faltering courage with the pleasures we have had.
_When There's Company for Tea_
When there's company for tea Things go mighty hard with me; Got to sit an' wait an' wait Till the last guest's cleaned his plate, An' I mustn't ask Ma what Kind of pie it is she's got, Mustn't crunch my napkin up Or dip cookies in my cup.
When there's company for tea Home don't seem like home to me; Got to wash my ears an' neck Till they do not show a speck; Got to brush my hair an' then Got to change my waist again, Then walk slowly down stairs an' Try to be a gentleman.
When there's company for tea Ma spends hours instructing me How to eat an' what to say, An' I can't go out to play When I've finished, but must stay Till Ma whispers: "Now you may!" Sittin' still is not much fun When you've got your supper done.
When there's company for tea, Then the servant waits on me Last instead of first, an' I Mustn't talk when she comes by; If the boys outside should call, I don't answer 'em at all; You'd never know that it was me When there's company for tea.
_When I Get Home_
When I get home at night they run To meet me down the street; The duties of the day are done And joy is mine to meet. Here is a welcome warm and true, Worth every task a man can do.
I stoop to catch them in my arms And nestle face to face; The finest of this old world's charms Is naught to this embrace; Thus to be greeted, I declare, Is worth a thousand years of care.
The toiling of the day is o'er, No more I need to roam, They shout this through the open door: "Oh, Mother! Daddy's home!" Who would not toil where engines hiss To earn so glad an hour as this?
When I get home at night and see The little place aglow With love and laughter all for me, The table set just so, I tell myself, just one glad smile Makes all the care of day worth while.
Oh, we have grieved and we have wept And bitter were our tears, Yet when the long faith we have kept Through all the lonely years, There will be glad souls in the gloam To welcome us when we get home.
_Living with the People_
Living with the people, the good, the brave, the strong, Glad to pass the time of day with all who come along. Lord, it's good to meet Your children as they trudge life's thoroughfare, And learn the hopes they cherish and the dreams they see out there.
Living with the people here upon the kindly earth, And finding in the strangest garb the messengers of mirth, For many a stirring tale of life the passer-by can tell, And every man is worth your while if but you know him well.
Living with the people, the rich, the poor, the wise, The same breeze blowing over them, the same sun in their eyes; And this you learn from high and low, throughout life's stretch of years, We're brothers in the joys we take and brothers in our tears.
I'm sorry for the haughty man who holds his head in air, And passes by in cold disdain the garbs of toil and care, For though he may be rich and great, 'tis lonely he must live, He misses all the glorious joys his fellows have to give.
Oh, walk with them and talk with them and hear the tales they tell, The passers-by would be your friends if but you knew them well. The children of the Lord are they, and as they come and go, There is not one among them all that is not good to know.
_The Carving Knife_
When I was but a little lad, my father carved what meat we had; With grace and skill he'd cut and slice the roast of beef or veal, With dexterous hand he'd wield the blade, no false or awkward move he made, And deftly he could whet the knife upon his shining steel. But now and then I'd hear him say: "Who's used my carving knife today? What woman's used this blade of mine for cutting wire or tin?" And on this special point he'd harp: "a carving weapon must be sharp, Or one can never cut a roast and have the slices thin."
"That knife must not be used on string, or bread or boards or anything-- Hands off my carving blade," he'd cry, and yet I grieve to say, In spite of all his warnings grim, the women paid no heed to him, They used his sacred carving knife a dozen times a day. They'd use that knife for cutting soap, old carpets, leather belts and rope, They'd use it too, for pulling tacks and leave it dulled and nicked, And every time a meal began, my father was an angry man, But vain was every oath he swore and every kick he kicked.
Now like my good old dad I stand, and take the carving knife in hand And run my thumb along its edge and find it dulled and nicked, And like my good old dad I vow some day there'll be a healthy row, But I'm as unsuccessful as my father when he kicked. The maid, the youngsters and the wife still take that sacred carving knife And use it as a handy tool on wood or lead or stone; In spite of all I do or say, the blade is dulled from day to day, I cannot get the women folks to leave that knife alone!
_Take a Boy Along With You_
Take a boy along with you And you'll learn before you're through That this world is full of wonders You'd forgotten all about; Song birds nesting in a tree That you pass and never see, Strange and curious mysteries The lad keeps pointing out.
He will question how and why, With his bright and eager eye He'll discover curious sights All along the way; He'll show novelties to you Which were hidden from your view, And will fill with ecstasy Just a common day.
What to you is dull and old, He will wonderingly behold, Marvelous your dreary world Will appear to him; And at every bend and turn From that youngster you will learn Just how much a man may miss When his eyes grow dim.
Who should say the world is bare, Commonplace and filled with care? Tired age may utter this, Blinded to its joy; Sage and cynic, grown severe, May have lost the magic here, But the world is glorious To a little boy.
If you fancy life is just Bearing burdens, as you must, City streets and buildings tall And the moving throng, If you've lost the power to see Splendors as they used to be, Some day when you're starting out Take a boy along.
_When the Soap Gets in Your Eye_
My father says that I ought to be A man when anything happens to me. An' he says that a man will take a blow An' never let on it hurts him so; He'll grit his teeth an' he'll set his chin An' bear his pain with a manly grin. But I'll bet that the bravest man would cry If ever the soap gets into his eye.
I'm brave enough when I'm playin' ball, An' I can laugh when I've had a fall. With the girls around I'd never show That I was scared if the blood should flow From my banged up nose or a battered knee. As brave as the bravest I can be, But it's different pain, an' I don't know why, Whenever the soap gets into your eye.
I can set my teeth an' I can grin When I scrape my cheek or I bark my shin, An' once I fell from our apple tree An' the wind was knocked right out of me, But I never cried an' the gang all said That they thought for sure I was really dead. But it's worse than thinking you're going to die Whenever the soap gets into your eye.
When your mother's holding your neck, and you Couldn't get away if you wanted to, An' she's latherin' hard with her good right hand, It's more than the bravest man could stand. If you open your mouth to howl, you get A taste of the wash rag, cold and wet, But you got to yell till your face gets dry Whenever the soap gets into your eye.
"_Our Little House_"
I'd like to have them think of me As one with whom they liked to be; I'd like to make my home so fair That they would all be happy there; To have them think, when life is done, That here they had their finest fun.
Within these walls with love aglow, They live to-morrow's "Long Ago." Nor is the time so far away When now shall be their yesterday, And they shall turn once more to see The little home which used to be.
When comes that time I want them then To wish they could be here again; I want their memories to be A picture of a kindly me, To have them say how very glad Their youthful lives were made by dad.
I want them to recall this place As one of charm and tender grace, To love these walls of calm content Wherein their youthful years were spent, And feel through each succeeding year, They lived their happiest moments here.
I feel I shall have failed unless This house shall shelter happiness. Save they shall find their truest mirth Around their father's humble hearth, And here life's finest joys attain, I shall have lived my life in vain.
_Spring Fever_
When the blue gets back in the skies once more And the vines grow green 'round the kitchen door, When the roses bud and the robins come, I stretch myself and I say: "Ho-hum! I ought to work but I guess I won't; Though some want riches to-day, I don't; This looks to me like the sort of day That was made to idle and dream away."
When the sun is high and the air just right, With the trees all blossomy, pink and white, And the grass, as soft as a feather bed With the white clouds drifting just overhead, I stretch and yawn like a school boy then, And turn away from the walks of men And tell myself in a shamefaced way: "I'm going to play hookey from work to-day!"
"Here is a morning too rare to miss, And what is gold to a day like this, And what is fame to the things I'll see Through the lattice-work of a fine old tree? There is work to do, but the work can wait; There are goals to reach, there are foes to hate, There are hurtful things which the smart might say, But nothing like that shall spoil to-day."
"To-day I'll turn from the noisy town And just put all of my burdens down; I'll quit the world and its common sense, And the things men think are of consequence, To chum with birds and the friendly trees And try to fathom their mysteries, For here is a day which looks to be The kind I can fritter away on me."
_Father Song_
It's oh, my little laddie, as you're romping at your play There's an old heart running with you every minute of the day; And though you cannot see me when you're wrapped up in a game, But it's I that am beside you in your striving just the same.
It is oh, my little laddie, there is much you cannot know, But it's I that follow proudly everywhere you chance to go; There's a hand upon your shoulder, wheresoever you may be, That would help you out of danger, and that hand belongs to me.
It is oh, my little laddie, though you cannot hear me call, I am always there to help you every time you chance to fall; I am with you in the school room and I'm with you on the street, And though you may not know it, I am dogging at your feet.
It's oh, my little laddie, all my life belongs to you, All the dreams that I have cherished through the years depend on you; And though now you cannot know it, you shall some day come to see How this old heart loved to hover 'round a boy that used to be.
_The Boy_
A possible man of affairs, A possible leader of men, Back of the grin that he wears There may be the courage of ten; Lawyer or merchant or priest, Artist or singer of joy, This, when his strength is increased, Is what may become of the boy.
Heedless and mischievous now, Spending his boyhood in play, Yet glory may rest on his brow And fame may exalt him some day; A skill that the world shall admire, Strength that the world shall employ And faith that shall burn as a fire, Are what may be found in the boy.
He with the freckles and tan, He with that fun-loving grin, May rise to great heights as a man And many a battle may win; Back of the slang of the streets And back of the love of a toy, It may be a Great Spirit beats-- Lincoln once played as a boy.
Trace them all back to their youth, All the great heroes we sing, Seeking and serving the Truth, President, poet and king, Washington, Caesar and Paul, Homer who sang about Troy, Jesus, the Greatest of all, Each in his time was a boy.
_I Don't Want to Go to Bed_
World wide over this is said: "I don't want to go to bed." Dads and mothers, far and near, Every night this chorus hear; Makes no difference where they are, Here or off in Zanzibar, In the igloos made of snow Of the fur-clad Eskimo, In this blistering torrid zone, This one touch of nature's known; In life's various tongues it's said: "I don't want to go to bed!"
This has ever been the way Of the youngsters at their play. Laughter quickly dries their tears, Trouble swiftly disappears, Joy is everywhere about, Here and there and in and out; Yet when night comes on they cry That so glad a day should die, And they think that they will miss Something more of precious bliss, So shouts every curly-head: "I don't want to go to bed!"