Chapter 2

Under the roof where the hearts are true, There is my earthly goal; There I am pledged till my work is through, Body and heart and soul. Think you that God will my choice condemn If I have never played false to them?

St. Valentine's Day

Let loose the sails of love and let them fill With breezes sweet with tenderness to-day; Scorn not the praises youthful lovers say; Romance is old, but it is lovely still. Not he who shows his love deserves the jeer, But he who speaks not what she longs to hear.

There is no shame in love's devoted speech; Man need not blush his tenderness to show; 'Tis shame to love and never let her know, To keep his heart forever out of reach. Not he the fool who lets his love go on, But he who spurns it when his love is won.

Men proudly vaunt their love of gold and fame, High station and accomplishments of skill, Yet of life's greatest conquest they are still, And deem it weakness, or an act of shame, To seem to place high value on the love Which first of all they should be proudest of.

Let loose the sails of love and let them take The tender breezes till the day be spent; Only the fool chokes out life's sentiment. She is a prize too lovely to forsake. Be not ashamed to send your valentine; She has your love, but needs its outward sign.

Dr. Johnson's Picture Cow

Got a sliver in my hand An' it hurt t' beat the band, An' got white around it, too; Then the first thing that I knew It was all swelled up, an' Pa Said: "There's no use fussin', Ma, Jes' put on his coat an' hat; Doctor Johnson must see that."

I was scared an' yelled, because One time when the doctor was At our house he made me smell Something funny, an' I fell Fast asleep, an' when I woke Seemed like I was goin' t' choke; An' the folks who stood about Said I'd had my tonsils out.

An' my throat felt awful sore An' I couldn't eat no more, An' it hurt me when I'd talk, An' they wouldn't let me walk. So when Pa said I must go To the doctor's, I said: "No, I don't want to go to-night, 'Cause my hand will be all right."

Pa said: "Take him, Ma," an' so I jes' knew I had t' go. An' the doctor looked an' said: "It is very sore an' red-- Much too sore to touch at all. See that picture on the wall, That one over yonder, Bud, With the old cow in the mud?

"Once I owned a cow like that, Jes' as brown an' big an' fat, An' one day I pulled her tail An' she kicked an' knocked the pail Full o' milk clean over me." Then I looked up there t' see His old cow above the couch, An' right then I hollered "ouch."

"Bud," says he, "what's wrong with you; Did the old cow kick you, too?" An' he laughed, an' Ma said: "Son, Never mind, now, it's all done." Pretty soon we came away An' my hand's all well to-day. But that's first time that I knew Picture cows could kick at you.

Compensation

I'd like to think when life is done That I had filled a needed post, That here and there I'd paid my fare With more than idle talk and boast; That I had taken gifts divine, The breath of life and manhood fine, And tried to use them now and then In service for my fellow men.

I'd hate to think when life is through That I had lived my round of years A useless kind, that leaves behind No record in this vale of tears; That I had wasted all my days By treading only selfish ways, And that this world would be the same If it had never known my name.

I'd like to think that here and there, When I am gone, there shall remain A happier spot that might have not Existed had I toiled for gain; That some one's cheery voice and smile Shall prove that I had been worth while; That I had paid with something fine My debt to God for life divine.

It Couldn't Be Done

Somebody said that it couldn't be done, But he with a chuckle replied That "maybe it couldn't," but he would be one Who wouldn't say so till he'd tried. So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin On his face. If he worried he hid it. He started to sing as he tackled the thing That couldn't be done, and he did it.

Somebody scoffed: "Oh, you'll never do that; At least no one ever has done it"; But he took off his coat and he took off his hat, And the first thing we knew he'd begun it. With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin, Without any doubting or quiddit, He started to sing as he tackled the thing That couldn't be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done, There are thousands to prophesy failure; There are thousands to point out to you one by one, The dangers that wait to assail you. But just buckle in with a bit of a grin, Just take off your coat and go to it; Just start in to sing as you tackle the thing That "cannot be done," and you'll do it.

Service

You never hear the robins brag about the sweetness of their song, Nor do they stop their music gay whene'er a poor man comes along. God taught them how to sing an' when they'd learned the art He sent them here To use their talents day by day the dreary lives o' men to cheer. An' rich or poor an' sad or gay, the ugly an' the fair to see, Can stop most any time in June an' hear the robins' melody.

I stand an' watch them in the sun, usin' their gifts from day to day, Swellin' their little throats with song, regardless of man's praise or pay; Jes' bein' robins, nothing else, nor claiming greatness for their deeds, But jes' content to gratify one of the big world's many needs, Singin' a lesson to us all to be ourselves and scatter cheer By usin' every day the gifts God gave us when He sent us here.

Why should we keep our talents hid, or think we favor men because We use the gifts that God has given? The robins never ask applause, Nor count themselves remarkable, nor strut in a superior way, Because their music sweeter is than that God gave unto the jay. Only a man conceited grows as he makes use of talents fine, Forgetting that he merely does the working of the Will Divine.

Lord, as the robins, let me serve! Teach me to do the best I can To make this world a better place, an' happier for my fellow man. If gift o' mine can cheer his soul an' hearten him along his way Let me not keep that talent hid; I would make use of it to-day. An' since the robins ask no praise, or pay for all their songs o' cheer, Let me in humbleness rejoice to do my bit o' service here.

At the Peace Table

Who shall sit at the table, then, when the terms of peace are made-- The wisest men of the troubled lands in their silver and gold brocade? Yes, they shall gather in solemn state to speak for each living race, But who shall speak for the unseen dead that shall come to the council place?

Though you see them not and you hear them not, they shall sit at the table, too; They shall throng the room where the peace is made and know what it is you do; The innocent dead from the sea shall rise to stand at the wise man's side, And over his shoulder a boy shall look--a boy that was crucified.

You may guard the doors of that council hall with barriers strong and stout, But the dead unbidden shall enter there, and never you'll shut them out. And the man that died in the open boat, and the babes that suffered worse, Shall sit at the table when peace is made by the side of a martyred nurse.

You may see them not, but they'll all be there; when they speak you may fail to hear; You may think that you're making your pacts alone, but their spirits will hover near; And whatever the terms of the peace you make with the tyrant whose hands are red, You must please not only the living here, but must satisfy your dead.

Mrs. Malone and the Censor

When Mrs. Malone got a letter from Pat She started to read it aloud in her flat. "Dear Mary," it started, "I can't tell you much, I'm somewhere in France, and I'm fightin' the Dutch; I'm chokin' wid news thot I'd like to relate, But it's little a soldier's permitted t' state. Do ye mind Red McPhee--well, he fell in a ditch An' busted an arrm, but I can't tell ye which.

"An' Paddy O'Hara was caught in a flame An' rescued by--Faith, I can't tell ye his name. Last night I woke up wid a terrible pain; I thought for awhile it would drive me insane. Oh, the suff'rin, I had was most dreadful t' bear! I'm sorry, my dear, but I can't tell ye where. The doctor he gave me a pill, but I find It's conthrary to rules t' disclose here the kind.

"I've been t' the dintist an' had a tooth out. I'm sorry t' leave you so shrouded in doubt But the best I can say is that one tooth is gone, The censor won't let me inform ye which one. I met a young fellow who knows ye right well, An' ye know him, too, but his name I can't tell. He's Irish, red-headed, an' there with th' blarney, His folks once knew your folks back home in Killarney."

"By gorry," said Mrs. Malone in her flat, "It's hard t' make sinse out av writin' like that, But I'll give him as good as he sends, that I will." So she went right to work with her ink well an' quill, An' she wrote, "I suppose ye're dead eager fer news-- You know when ye left we were buyin' the shoes; Well, the baby has come, an' we're both doin' well; It's a ----. Oh, but that's somethin' they won't let me tell."

The Unknown Friends

We cannot count our friends, nor say How many praise us day by day. Each one of us has friends that he Has yet to meet and really know, Who guard him, wheresoe'er they be, From harm and slander's cruel blow. They help to light our path with cheer, Although they pass as strangers here.

These friends, unseen, unheard, unknown, Our lasting gratitude should own. They serve us in a thousand ways Where we perhaps should friendless be; They tell our worth and speak our praise And for their service ask no fee; They choose to be our friends, although We have not learned to call them so.

We cannot guess how large the debt We owe to friends we have not met. We only know, from day to day, That we discover here and there How one has tried to smooth our way, And ease our heavy load of care, Then passed along and left behind His friendly gift for us to find.

First Name Friends

Though some may yearn for titles great, and seek the frills of fame, I do not care to have an extra handle to my name. I am not hungry for the pomp of life's high dignities, I do not sigh to sit among the honored LL. D.'s. I shall be satisfied if I can be unto the end, To those I know and live with here, a simple, first-name friend.

There's nothing like the comradeship which warms the lives of those Who make the glorious circle of the Jacks and Bills and Joes. With all his majesty and power, Old Caesar never knew The joy of first-name fellowship, as all the Eddies do. Let them who will be "mistered" here and raised above the rest; I hold a first-name greeting is by far the very best.

Acquaintance calls for dignity. You never really know The man on whom the terms of pomp you feel you must bestow. Professor William Joseph Wise may be your friend, but still You are not certain of the fact till you can call him Bill. But hearts grow warm and lips grow kind, and all the shamming ends, When you are in the company of good old first-name friends.

The happiest men on earth are not the men of highest rank; That joy belongs to George, and Jim, to Henry and to Frank; With them the prejudice of race and creed and wealth depart, And men are one in fellowship and always light of heart. So I would live and laugh and love until my sun descends, And share the joyous comradeship of honest first-name friends.

The Furnace Door

My father is a peaceful man; He tries in every way he can To live a life of gentleness And patience all the while. He says that needless fretting's vain, That it's absurd to be profane, That nearly every wrong can be Adjusted with a smile. Yet try no matter how he will, There's one thing that annoys him still, One thing that robs him of his calm And leaves him very sore; He cannot keep his self-control When with a shovel full of coal He misses where it's headed for, And hits the furnace door.

He measures with a careful eye The space for which he's soon to try, Then grabs his trusty shovel up And loads it in the bin, Then turns and with a healthy lunge, That's two parts swing and two parts plunge, He lets go at the furnace fire, Convinced it will go in! And then we hear a sudden smack, The cellar air turns blue and black; Above the rattle of the coal We hear his awful roar. From dreadful language upward hissed We know that father's aim has missed, And that his shovel full of coal Went up against the door.

The minister was here one day For supper, and Pa went away To fix the furnace fire, and soon We heard that awful roar. And through the furnace pipes there came Hot words that made Ma blush for shame. "It strikes me," said the minister, "He hit the furnace door." Ma turned away and hung her head; "I'm so ashamed," was all she said. And then the minister replied: "Don't worry. I admit That when I hit the furnace door, And spill the coal upon the floor, I quite forget the cloth I wear And--er--swear a little bit."

Out Fishin'

A feller isn't thinkin' mean, Out fishin'; His thoughts are mostly good an' clean, Out fishin'. He doesn't knock his fellow men, Or harbor any grudges then; A feller's at his finest when Out fishin'.

The rich are comrades to the poor, Out fishin'; All brothers of a common lure, Out fishin'. The urchin with the pin an' string Can chum with millionaire an' king; Vain pride is a forgotten thing, Out fishin'.

A feller gits a chance to dream, Out fishin'; He learns the beauties of a stream, Out fishin'; An' he can wash his soul in air That isn't foul with selfish care, An' relish plain and simple fare, Out fishin'.

A feller has no time fer hate, Out fishin'; He isn't eager to be great, Out fishin'. He isn't thinkin' thoughts of pelf, Or goods stacked high upon a shelf, But he is always just himself, Out fishin'.

A feller's glad to be a friend, Out fishin'; A helpin' hand he'll always lend, Out fishin'. The brotherhood of rod an' line An' sky and stream is always fine; Men come real close to God's design, Out fishin'.

A feller isn't plotting schemes, Out fishin'; He's only busy with his dreams, Out fishin'. His livery is a coat of tan, His creed--to do the best he can; A feller's always mostly man, Out fishin'.

Selling the Old Home

The little house has grown too small, or rather we have grown Too big to dwell within the walls where all our joys were known. And so, obedient to the wish of her we love so well, I have agreed for sordid gold the little home to sell. Now strangers come to see the place, and secretly I sigh, And deep within my breast I hope that they'll refuse to buy.

"This bedroom's small," one woman said; up went her nose in scorn! To me that is the splendid room where little Bud was born. "The walls are sadly finger-marked," another stranger said. A lump came rising in my throat; I felt my cheeks grow red. "Yes, yes," I answered, "so they are. The fingermarks are free But I'd not leave them here if I could take them all with me."

"The stairway shows the signs of wear." I answered her in heat, "That's but the glorious sign to me of happy little feet. Most anyone can have a flight of shiny stairs and new But those are steps where joy has raced, and love and laughter, too." "This paper's ruined! Here are scrawled some pencil marks, I note." I'd treasured them for years. They were the first he ever wrote.

Oh I suppose we'll sell the place; it's right that we should go; The children must have larger rooms in which to live and grow. But all my joys were cradled here; 'tis here I've lived my best, 'Tis here, whatever else shall come, we've been our happiest; And though into a stranger's hands this home I shall resign, And take his gold in pay for it, I still shall call it mine.

Daddies

I would rather be the daddy Of a romping, roguish crew, Of a bright-eyed chubby laddie And a little girl or two, Than the monarch of a nation, In his high and lofty seat, Taking empty adoration From the subjects at his feet.

I would rather own their kisses, As at night to me they run, Than to be the king who misses All the simpler forms of fun. When his dreary day is ending He is dismally alone, But when my sun is descending There are joys for me to own.

He may ride to horns and drumming; I must walk a quiet street, But when once they see me coming, Then on joyous, flying feet They come racing to me madly And I catch them with a swing, And I say it proudly, gladly, That I'm happier than a king.

You may talk of lofty places; You may boast of pomp and power; Men may turn their eager faces To the glory of an hour, But give me the humble station With its joys that long survive, For the daddies of the nation Are the happiest men alive.

Picture Books

I hold the finest picture books Are woods an' fields an' runnin' brooks; An' when the month o' May has done Her paintin', an' the mornin' sun Is lightin' just exactly right Each gorgeous scene for mortal sight, I steal a day from toil an' go To see the springtime's picture show.

It's everywhere I choose to tread-- Perhaps I'll find a violet bed Half hidden by the larger scenes, Or group of ferns, or living greens, So graceful an' so fine, I'll swear That angels must have placed them there To beautify the lonely spot That mortal man would have forgot.

What hand can paint a picture book So marvelous as a runnin' brook? It matters not what time o' day You visit it, the sunbeams play Upon it just exactly right, The mysteries of God to light. No human brush could ever trace A droopin' willow with such grace!

Page after page, new beauties rise To thrill with gladness an' surprise The soul of him who drops his care And seeks the woods to wander there. Birds, with the angel gift o' song, Make music for him all day long; An' nothin' that is base or mean Disturbs the grandeur of the scene.

There is no hint of hate or strife; The woods display the joy of life, An' answer with a silence fine The scoffer's jeer at power divine. When doubt is high an' faith is low, Back to the woods an' fields I go, An' say to violet and tree: "No mortal hand has fashioned thee."

Mother's Job

I'm just the man to make things right, To mend a sleigh or make a kite, Or wrestle on the floor and play Those rough and tumble games, but say! Just let him get an ache or pain, And start to whimper and complain, And from my side he'll quickly flee To clamber on his mother's knee.

I'm good enough to be his horse And race with him along the course. I'm just the friend he wants each time There is a tree he'd like to climb, And I'm the pal he's eager for When we approach a candy store; But for his mother straight he makes Whene'er his little stomach aches.

He likes, when he is feeling well, The kind of stories that I tell, And I'm his comrade and his chum And I must march behind his drum. To me through thick and thin he'll stick, Unless he happens to be sick. In which event, with me he's through-- Only his mother then will do.

The Approach of Christmas

There's a little chap at our house that is being mighty good-- Keeps the front lawn looking tidy in the way we've said he should; Doesn't leave his little wagon, when he's finished with his play, On the sidewalk as he used to; now he puts it right away. When we call him in to supper, we don't have to stand and shout; It is getting on to Christmas and it's plain he's found it out.

He eats the food we give him without murmur or complaint; He sits up at the table like a cherub or a saint; He doesn't pinch his sister just to hear how loud she'll squeal; Doesn't ask us to excuse him in the middle of the meal, And at eight o'clock he's willing to be tucked away in bed. It is getting close to Christmas; nothing further need be said.

I chuckle every evening as I see that little elf, With the crooked part proclaiming that he brushed his hair himself. And I chuckle as I notice that his hands and face are clean, For in him a perfect copy of another boy is seen-- A little boy at Christmas, who was also being good, Never guessing that his father and his mother understood.

There's a little boy at our house that is being mighty good; Doing everything that's proper, doing everything he should. But besides him there's a grown-up who has learned life's bitter truth, Who is gladly living over all the joys of vanished youth. And although he little knows it (for it's what I never knew), There's a mighty happy father sitting at the table, too.

The Bride

Little lady at the altar, Vowing by God's book and psalter To be faithful, fond and true Unto him who stands by you, Think not that romance is ended, That youth's curtain has descended, And love's pretty play is done; For it's only just begun.

Marriage, blushing little lady, Is love's sunny path and shady, Over which two hearts should wander, Of each other growing fonder. As you stroll to each to-morrow, You will come to joy and sorrow, And as faithful man and wife Read the troubled book of life.

Bitter cares will some day find you; Closer, closer they will bind you; If together you will bear them, Cares grow sweet when lovers share them. Love unites two happy mortals, Brings them here to wedlock's portals And then blithely bids them go, Arm in arm, through weal and woe.

Little lady, just remember Every year has its December, Every rising sun its setting, Every life its time of fretting; And the honeymoon's sweet beauty Finds too soon the clouds of duty; But keep faith, when trouble-tried, And in joy you shall abide.

Little lady at the altar, Never let your courage falter, Never stoop to unbelieving, Even when your heart is grieving. To what comes of wintry weather Or disaster, stand together; Through life's fearful hours of night Love shall bring you to the light.

An Apple Tree in France

An apple tree beside the way, Drinking the sunshine day by day According to the Master's plan, Had been a faithful friend to man. It had been kind to all who came, Nor asked the traveler's race or name, But with the peasant boy or king Had shared its blossoms in the spring, And from the summer's dreary heat To all had offered sweet retreat.

When autumn brought the harvest time, Its branches all who wished might climb, And take from many a tender shoot Its rosy-cheeked, delicious fruit. Good men, by careless speech or deed, Have caused a neighbor's heart to bleed; Wrong has been done by high intent; Hate has been born where love was meant, Yet apple trees of field or farm Have never done one mortal harm.

Then came the Germans into France And found this apple tree by chance. They shared its blossoms in the spring; They heard the songs the thrushes sing; They rested in the cooling shade Its old and friendly branches made, And in the fall its fruit they ate. And then they turn on it in hate, Like beasts, on blood and passion drunk, They hewed great gashes in its trunk.

Beneath its roots, with hell's delight, They placed destruction's dynamite And blew to death, with impish glee, An old and friendly apple tree. Men may rebuild their homes in time; Swiftly cathedral towers may climb, And hearts forget their weight of woe, As over them life's currents flow, But this their lasting shame shall be: They put to death an apple tree!

Along the Paths o' Glory

Along the paths o' glory there are faces new to-day, There are youthful hearts and sturdy that have found the westward way. From the rugged roads o' duty they have turned without a sigh, To mingle with their brothers who were not afraid to die. And they're looking back and smiling at the loved ones left behind, With the Old Flag flying o'er them, and they're calling "Never mind.