Chapter 1
Produced by Alicia Williams, Andrew Sly and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note: A few minor irregularities of punctuation have been corrected in this text.
The Path to Home
By
Edgar A. Guest
Author of "Just Folks"--"Over Here" "A Heap o' Livin'"
The Reilly & Lee Co.
Chicago
Copyright, 1919
by
The Reilly & Lee Co.
_All Rights Reserved._
Printed in The United States of America.
To
F. K. R.
A friend who had faith
INDEX
Alone 145 Along the Paths o' Glory 61 Apple Tree in France, An 60 Approach of Christmas, The 56 At Dawn 165 At the Peace Table 40 Aunty 88
Back Home 82 Becoming a Dad 124 Being Dad on Christmas Eve 102 Best Way to Read a Book 122 Boy at Christmas, A 120 Bread and Jam 90 Bride, The 58 Bud Discusses Cleanliness 72 Burden Bearer, The 112
Change-Worker, The 174 Children, The 108 Choice, A 79 Cliffs of Scotland 63 Comedian, The 109 Common Joys, The 171 Compensation 36 Convalescin' Woman, A 176 Cookie-Lady, The 67 Cut-Down Trousers, The 147
Daddies 52 Dead Return, The 84 Different 117 Dinner-Time 149 Doctor, The 26 Dr. Johnson's Picture Cow 34 Doubtful To-morrow, The 178
Evening-Prayer, The 152
Faces 22 Faith 111 Father's Chore 186 Father of the Man, The 94 Fatherhood 77 Fine 13 Finest Fellowship, The 116 First Name Friends 44 Fun of Forgiving, The 162 Furnace Door, The 46
Gift of Play, The 98 Good Name, A 143
His Dog 157 His Example 172
It Couldn't Be Done 37 "It's a Boy" 114
Kindness 31
Lesson from Golf, A 184 Lines for a Flag Raising Ceremony 28 Little Fishermen 66 Little Girls 103 Little Woman, The 92 Living Flowers 170 Lonely Garden, The 134 Lost Opportunities 130 Lost Purse, The 24 Lullaby 158
March o' Man, The 188 Mother's Job 55 Mother's Party Dress 64 Mother Watch, The 20 Mrs. Malone and the Censor 41 My Job 142 My Soul and I 86
Names and Faces 166
Old-Fashioned Parents, The 160 Old-Fashioned Welcome, An 15 Old Wooden Tub, The 128 Our Country 76 Our House 16 Out Fishin' 48
Path to Home, The 11 Patriotism 131 Pay Envelope, The 150 Picture Books 53 Plea, A 17 Pleasing Dad 168 Pleasure's Signs 69
Right Family, The 182
Selling the Old Home 50 Service 38 Shut-Ins 146 Silver Stripes, The 136 Snooping 'Round 70 Song of Loved Ones, The 123 Spoiling Them 14 St. Valentine's Day 33 Story-Time 18
Test, The 126 There Will Always Be Something to Do 119 Thoughts of a Father 153 Tied Down 74 Tinkerin' at Home 138 To the Boy 156 Tommy Atkins' Way 180 Tonsils 163 Toys and Life 100 Toy-Strewn Home, The 30 Tramp, The 133
Under the Roof Where the Laughter Rings 32 United States 105 Unknown Friends, The 43
What Father Knows 80 When a Little Baby Dies 155 When an Old Man Gets to Thinking 140 When Mother Made an Angel Cake 96 When My Ship Comes In 106
The Path to Home
There's the mother at the doorway, and the children at the gate, And the little parlor windows with the curtains white and straight. There are shaggy asters blooming in the bed that lines the fence, And the simplest of the blossoms seems of mighty consequence. Oh, there isn't any mansion underneath God's starry dome That can rest a weary pilgrim like the little place called home.
Men have sought for gold and silver; men have dreamed at night of fame; In the heat of youth they've struggled for achievement's honored name; But the selfish crowns are tinsel, and their shining jewels paste, And the wine of pomp and glory soon grows bitter to the taste. For there's never any laughter, howsoever far you roam, Like the laughter of the loved ones in the happiness of home.
There is nothing so important as the mother's lullabies, Filled with peace and sweet contentment, when the moon begins to rise-- Nothing real except the beauty and the calm upon her face And the shouting of the children as they scamper round the place. For the greatest of man's duties is to keep his loved ones glad And to have his children glory in the father they have had.
So where'er a man may wander, and whatever be his care, You'll find his soul still stretching to the home he left somewhere. You'll find his dreams all tangled up with hollyhocks in bloom, And the feet of little children that go racing through a room, With the happy mother smiling as she watches them at play-- These are all in life that matter, when you've stripped the sham away.
Fine
Isn't it fine when the day is done, And the petty battles are lost or won, When the gold is made and the ink is dried, To quit the struggle and turn aside To spend an hour with your boy in play, And let him race all of your cares away?
Isn't it fine when the day's gone well, When you have glorious tales to tell, And your heart is light and your head is high. For nothing has happened to make you sigh, To hurry homewards to share the joy That your work has won with a little boy?
Isn't it fine, whether good or bad Has come to the hopes and the plans you had, And the day is over, to find him there, Thinking you splendid and just and fair, Ready to chase all your griefs away, And soothe your soul with an hour of play?
Oh, whether the day's been long or brief, Whether it's brought to me joy or grief, Whether I've failed, or whether I've won, It shall matter not when the work is done; I shall count it fine if I end each day With a little boy in an hour of play.
Spoiling Them
"You're spoiling them!" the mother cries When I give way to weepy eyes And let them do the things they wish, Like cleaning up the jelly dish, Or finishing the chocolate cake, Or maybe let the rascal take My piece of huckleberry pie, Because he wants it more than I.
"You're spoiling them!" the mother tells, When I am heedless to their yells, And let them race and romp about And do not put their joy to rout. I know I should be firm, and yet I tried it once to my regret; I will remember till I'm old The day I started in to scold.
I stamped my foot and shouted: "Stop!" And Bud just let his drum sticks drop, And looked at me, and turned away; That night there was no further play. The girls were solemn-like and still, Just as girls are when they are ill, And when unto his cot I crept, I found him sobbing as he slept.
That was my first attempt and last To play the scold. I'm glad it passed So quickly and has left no trace Of memory on each little face; But now when mother whispers low: "You're spoiling them," I answer, "No! But it is plain, as plain can be, Those little tykes are spoiling me."
An Old-Fashioned Welcome
There's nothing cheers a fellow up just like a hearty greeting, A handclasp and an honest smile that flash the joy of meeting; And when at friendly doors you ring, somehow it seems to free you From all life's doubts to hear them say: "Come in! We're glad to see you!"
At first the portal slips ajar in answer to your ringing, And then your eyes meet friendly eyes, and wide the door goes flinging; And something seems to stir the soul, however troubled be you, If but the cheery host exclaims: "Come in! We're glad to see you!"
Our House
We play at our house and have all sorts of fun, An' there's always a game when the supper is done; An' at our house there's marks on the walls an' the stairs, An' some terrible scratches on some of the chairs; An' ma says that our house is really a fright, But pa and I say that our house is all right.
At our house we laugh an' we sing an' we shout, An' whirl all the chairs an' the tables about, An' I rassle my pa an' I get him down too, An' he's all out of breath when the fightin' is through; An' ma says that our house is surely a sight, But pa an' I say that our house is all right.
I've been to houses with pa where I had To sit in a chair like a good little lad, An' there wasn't a mark on the walls an' the chairs, An' the stuff that we have couldn't come up to theirs; An' pa said to ma that for all of their joy He wouldn't change places an' give up his boy.
They never have races nor rassles nor fights, Coz they have no children to play with at nights; An' their walls are all clean an' their curtains hang straight, An' everything's shiny an' right up to date; But pa says with all of its racket an' fuss, He'd rather by far live at our house with us.
A Plea
God grant me these: the strength to do Some needed service here; The wisdom to be brave and true; The gift of vision clear, That in each task that comes to me Some purpose I may plainly see.
God teach me to believe that I Am stationed at a post, Although the humblest 'neath the sky, Where I am needed most. And that, at last, if I do well My humble services will tell.
God grant me faith to stand on guard, Uncheered, unspoke, alone, And see behind such duty hard My service to the throne. Whate'er my task, be this my creed: I am on earth to fill a need.
Story-Time
"Tell us a story," comes the cry From little lips when nights are cold, And in the grate the flames leap high. "Tell us a tale of pirates bold, Or fairies hiding in the glen, Or of a ship that's wrecked at sea." I fill my pipe, and there and then Gather the children round my knee.
I give them all a role to play-- No longer are they youngsters small, And I, their daddy, turning gray; We are adventurers, one and all. We journey forth as Robin Hood In search of treasure, or to do Some deed of daring or of good; Our hearts are ever brave and true.
We take a solemn oath to be Defenders of the starry flag; We brave the winter's stormy sea, Or climb the rugged mountain crag, To battle to the death with those Who would defame our native land; We pitch our camp among the snows Or on the tropics' burning sand.
We rescue maidens, young and fair, Held captive long in prison towers; We slay the villain in his lair, For we're possessed of magic powers. And though we desperately fight, When by our foes are we beset, We always triumph for the right; We have not lost a battle yet.
It matters not how far we stray, Nor where our battle lines may be, We never get so far away That we must spend a night at sea. It matters not how high we climb, How many foes our pathway block, We always conquer just in time To go to bed at 9 o'clock.
The Mother Watch
She never closed her eyes in sleep till we were all in bed; On party nights till we came home she often sat and read. We little thought about it then, when we were young and gay, How much the mother worried when we children were away. We only knew she never slept when we were out at night, And that she waited just to know that we'd come home all right.
Why, sometimes when we'd stayed away till one or two or three, It seemed to us that mother heard the turning of the key; For always when we stepped inside she'd call and we'd reply, But we were all too young back then to understand just why. Until the last one had returned she always kept a light, For mother couldn't sleep until she'd kissed us all good night.
She had to know that we were safe before she went to rest; She seemed to fear the world might harm the ones she loved the best. And once she said: "When you are grown to women and to men, Perhaps I'll sleep the whole night through; I may be different then." And so it seemed that night and day we knew a mother's care-- That always when we got back home we'd find her waiting there.
Then came the night that we were called to gather round her bed: "The children all are with you now," the kindly doctor said. And in her eyes there gleamed again the old-time tender light That told she had been waiting just to know we were all right. She smiled the old-familiar smile, and prayed to God to keep Us safe from harm throughout the years, and then she went to sleep.
Faces
I look into the faces of the people passing by, The glad ones and the sad ones, and the lined with misery, And I wonder why the sorrow or the twinkle in the eye; But the pale and weary faces are the ones that trouble me.
I saw a face this morning, and time was when it was fair; Youth had brushed it bright with color in the distant long ago, And the goddess of the lovely once had kept a temple there, But the cheeks were pale with grieving and the eyes were dull with woe.
Who has done this thing I wondered; what has wrought the ruin here? Why these sunken cheeks and pallid where the roses once were pink? Why has beauty fled her palace; did some vandal hand appear? Did her lover prove unfaithful or her husband take to drink?
Once the golden voice of promise whispered sweetly in her ears; She was born to be a garden where the smiles of love might lurk; Now the eyes that shone like jewels are but gateways for her tears, And she takes her place among us, toilers early bound for work.
Is it fate that writes so sadly, or the cruelty of man? What foul deed has marred the parchment of a life so fair as this? Who has wrecked this lovely temple and destroyed the Maker's plan, Raining blows on cheeks of beauty God had fashioned just to kiss?
Oh, the pale and weary faces of the people that I see Are the ones that seem to haunt me, and I pray to God above That such cruel desolation shall not ever come to be Stamped forever in the future on the faces that I love.
The Lost Purse
I remember the excitement and the terrible alarm That worried everybody when William broke his arm; An' how frantic Pa and Ma got only jes' the other day When they couldn't find the baby coz he'd up an' walked away; But I'm sure there's no excitement that our house has ever shook Like the times Ma can't remember where she's put her pocketbook.
When the laundry man is standin' at the door an' wants his pay Ma hurries in to get it, an' the fun starts right away. She hustles to the sideboard, coz she knows exactly where She can put her hand right on it, but alas! it isn't there. She tries the parlor table an' she goes upstairs to look, An' once more she can't remember where she put her pocketbook.
She tells us that she had it just a half an hour ago, An' now she cannot find it though she's hunted high and low; She's searched the kitchen cupboard an' the bureau drawers upstairs, An' it's not behind the sofa nor beneath the parlor chairs. She makes us kids get busy searching every little nook, An' this time says she's certain that she's lost her pocketbook.
She calls Pa at the office an' he laughs I guess, for then She always mumbles something 'bout the heartlessness of men. She calls to mind a peddler who came to the kitchen door, An' she's certain from his whiskers an' the shabby clothes he wore An' his dirty shirt an' collar that he must have been a crook, An' she's positive that feller came and got her pocketbook.
But at last she allus finds it in some queer an' funny spot, Where she'd put it in a hurry, an' had somehow clean forgot; An' she heaves a sigh of gladness, an' she says, "Well, I declare, I would take an oath this minute that I never put it there." An' we're peaceable an' quiet till next time Ma goes to look An' finds she can't remember where she put her pocketbook.
The Doctor
I don't see why Pa likes him so, And seems so glad to have him come; He jabs my ribs and wants to know If here and there it's hurting some. He holds my wrist, coz there are things In there, which always jump and jerk, Then, with a telephone he brings, He listens to my breather work.
He taps my back and pinches me, Then hangs a mirror on his head And looks into my throat to see What makes it hurt and if it's red. Then on his knee he starts to write And says to mother, with a smile: "This ought to fix him up all right, We'll cure him in a little while."
I don't see why Pa likes him so. Whenever I don't want to play He says: "The boy is sick, I know! Let's get the doctor right away." And when he comes, he shakes his hand, And hustles him upstairs to me, And seems contented just to stand Inside the room where he can see.
Then Pa says every time he goes: "That's money I am glad to pay; It's worth it, when a fellow knows His pal will soon be up to play." But maybe if my Pa were me, And had to take his pills and all, He wouldn't be so glad to see The doctor come to make a call.
Lines For a Flag Raising Ceremony
Full many a flag the breeze has kissed; Through ages long the morning sun Has risen o'er the early mist The flags of men to look upon. And some were red against the sky, And some with colors true were gay, And some in shame were born to die, For Flags of hate must pass away. Such symbols fall as men depart, Brief is the reign of arrant might; The vicious and the vile at heart Give way in time before the right.
A flag is nothing in itself; It but reflects the lives of men; And they who lived and toiled for pelf Went out as vipers in a den. God cleans the sky from time to time Of every tyrant flag that flies, And every brazen badge of crime Falls to the ground and swiftly dies. Proud kings are mouldering in the dust; Proud flags of ages past are gone; Only the symbols of the just Have lived and shall keep living on.
So long as we shall serve the truth, So long as honor stamps us fair, Each age shall pass unto its youth Old Glory proudly flying there! But if we fail our splendid past, If we prove faithless, weak and base, That age shall be our banner's last; A fairer flag shall take its place. This flag we fling unto the skies Is but an emblem of our hearts, And when our love of freedom dies, Our banner with our race departs.
Full many a flag the breezes kiss, Full many a flag the sun has known, But none so bright and fair as this; None quite so splendid as our own! This tells the world that we are men Who cling to manhood's ways and truth; It is our soul's great voice and pen, The strength of age, the guide of youth, And it shall ever hold the sky So long as we shall keep our trust; But if our love of right shall die Our Flag shall sink into the dust.
The Toy-Strewn Home
Give me the house where the toys are strewn, Where the dolls are asleep in the chairs, Where the building blocks and the toy balloon And the soldiers guard the stairs. Let me step in a house where the tiny cart With the horses rules the floor, And rest comes into my weary heart, For I am at home once more.
Give me the house with the toys about, With the battered old train of cars, The box of paints and the books left out, And the ship with her broken spars. Let me step in a house at the close of day That is littered with children's toys, And dwell once more in the haunts of play, With the echoes of by-gone noise.
Give me the house where the toys are seen, The house where the children romp, And I'll happier be than man has been 'Neath the gilded dome of pomp. Let me see the litter of bright-eyed play Strewn over the parlor floor, And the joys I knew in a far-off day Will gladden my heart once more.
Whoever has lived in a toy-strewn home, Though feeble he be and gray, Will yearn, no matter how far he roam, For the glorious disarray Of the little home with its littered floor That was his in the by-gone days; And his heart will throb as it throbbed before, When he rests where a baby plays.
Kindness
One never knows How far a word of kindness goes; One never sees How far a smile of friendship flees. Down, through the years, The deed forgotten reappears.
One kindly word The souls of many here has stirred. Man goes his way And tells with every passing day, Until life's end: "Once unto me he played the friend."
We cannot say What lips are praising us to-day. We cannot tell Whose prayers ask God to guard us well. But kindness lives Beyond the memory of him who gives.
Under the Roof Where the Laughter Rings
Under the roof where the laughter rings, That's where I long to be; There are all of the glorious things, Meaning so much to me. There is where striving and toiling ends; There is where always the rainbow bends.
Under the roof where the children shout, There is the perfect rest; There is the clamor of greed shut out, Ended the ceaseless quest. Battles I fight through the heat of to-day Are only to add to their hours of play.
Under the roof where the eyes are bright, There I would build my fame; There my record of life I'd write; There I would sign my name. There in laughter and true content Let me fashion my monument.