Chapter 6
Little girlie, kneeling there, Speaking low your evening prayer, In your cunning little nightie With your pink toes peeping through, With your eyes closed and your hands Tightly clasped, while daddy stands In the doorway, just to hear the "God bless papa," lisped by you, You don't know just what I feel, As I watch you nightly kneel By your trundle bed and whisper Soft and low your little prayer! But in all I do or plan, I'm a bigger, better man Every time I hear you asking God to make my journey fair.
Little girlie, kneeling there, Lisping low your evening prayer, Asking God above to bless me At the closing of each day, Oft the tears come to my eyes, And I feel a big lump rise In my throat, that I can't swallow, And I sometimes turn away. In the morning, when I wake, And my post of duty take, I go forth with new-born courage To accomplish what is fair; And, throughout the live-long day, I am striving every way To come back to you each evening And be worthy of your prayer.
Thoughts of a Father
We've never seen the Father here, but we have known the Son, The finest type of manhood since the world was first begun. And, summing up the works of God, I write with reverent pen, The greatest is the Son He sent to cheer the lives of men.
Through Him we learned the ways of God and found the Father's love; The Son it was who won us back to Him who reigns above. The Lord did not come down himself to prove to men His worth, He sought our worship through the Child He placed upon the earth.
How can I best express my life? Wherein does greatness lie? How can I long remembrance win, since I am born to die? Both fame and gold are selfish things; their charms may quickly flee, But I'm the father of a boy who came to speak for me.
In him lies all I hope to be; his splendor shall be mine; I shall have done man's greatest work if only he is fine. If some day he shall help the world long after I am dead, In all that men shall say of him my praises shall be said.
It matters not what I may win of fleeting gold or fame, My hope of joy depends alone on what my boy shall claim. My story must be told through him, for him I work and plan, Man's greatest duty is to be the father of a man.
When a Little Baby Dies
When a little baby dies And its wee form silent lies, And its little cheeks seem waxen And its little hands are still, Then your soul gives way to treason, And you cry: "O, God, what reason, O, what justice and what mercy Have You shown us by Your will?
"There are, O, so many here Of the yellow leaf and sere, Who are anxious, aye, and ready To respond unto Your call; Yet You pass them by unheeding, And You set our hearts to bleeding! "O," you mutter, "God, how cruel Do Your vaunted mercies fall!"
Yet some day, in after years, When Death's angel once more nears, And the unknown, silent river Looms as darkly as a pall, You will hear your baby saying, "Mamma, come to me, I'm staying With my arms outstretched to greet you," And you'll understand it all.
To the Boy
I have no wish, my little lad, To climb the towering heights of fame. I am content to be your dad And share with you each pleasant game. I am content to hold your hand And walk along life's path with you, And talk of things we understand-- The birds and trees and skies of blue.
Though some may seek the smiles of kings, For me your laughter's joy enough; I have no wish to claim the things Which lure men into pathways rough. I'm happiest when you and I, Unmindful of life's bitter cares, Together watch the clouds drift by, Or follow boyhood's thoroughfares.
I crave no more of life than this: Continuance of such a trust; Your smile, whate'er the morning is, Until my clay returns to dust. If but this comradeship may last Until I end my earthly task-- Your hand and mine by love held fast-- Fame has no charm for which I'd ask.
I would not trade one day with you To wear the purple robes of power, Nor drop your hand from mine to do Some great deed in a selfish hour. For you have brought me joy serene And made my soul supremely glad. In life rewarded I have been; 'Twas all worth while to be your dad.
His Dog
Pete bristles when the doorbell rings. Last night he didn't act the same. Dogs have a way of knowin' things, An' when the dreaded cable came, He looked at mother an' he whined His soft, low sign of somethin' wrong, As though he knew that we should find The news that we had feared so long.
He's followed me about the place An' hasn't left my heels to-day; He's rubbed his nose against my face As if to kiss my grief away. There on his plate beside the door You'll see untouched his mornin' meal. I never understood before That dogs share every hurt you feel.
We've got the pride o' service fine As consolation for the blow; We know by many a written line He went the way he wished to go. We know that God an' Country found Our boy a servant brave an' true-- But Pete must sadly walk around An' miss the master that he knew.
The mother's bearing up as well As such a noble mother would; The hurt I feel I needn't tell-- I guess by all it's understood. But Pete--his dog--that used to wait Each night to hear his cheery call, An' romped about him at the gate, Has felt the blow the worst of all.
Lullaby
The golden dreamboat's ready, all her silken sails are spread, And the breeze is gently blowing to the fairy port of Bed, And the fairy's captain's waiting while the busy sandman flies With the silver dust of slumber, closing every baby's eyes.
Oh, the night is rich with moonlight and the sea is calm with peace, And the angels fly to guard you and their watch shall never cease, And the fairies there await you; they have splendid dreams to spin; You shall hear them gayly singing as the dreamboat's putting in.
Like the ripple of the water does the dreamboat's whistle blow, Only baby ears can catch it when it comes the time to go, Only little ones may journey on so wonderful a ship, And go drifting off to slumber with no care to mar the trip.
Oh, the little eyes are heavy but the little soul is light; It shall never know a sorrow or a terror through the night. And at last when dawn is breaking and the dreamboat's trip is o'er, You shall wake to find the mother smiling over you once more.
The Old-Fashioned Parents
The good old-fashioned mothers and the good old-fashioned dads, With their good old-fashioned lassies and their good old-fashioned lads, Still walk the lanes of loving in their simple, tender ways, As they used to do back yonder in the good old-fashioned days.
They dwell in every city and they live in every town, Contentedly and happy and not hungry for renown; On every street you'll find 'em in their simple garments clad, The good old-fashioned mother and the good old-fashioned dad.
There are some who sigh for riches, there are some who yearn for fame, And a few misguided people who no longer blush at shame; But the world is full of mothers, and the world is full of dads; Who are making sacrifices for their little girls and lads.
They are growing old together, arm in arm they walk along, And their hearts with love are beating and their voices sweet with song; They still share their disappointments and they share their pleasures, too, And whatever be their fortune, to each other they are true.
They are watching at the bedside of a baby pale and white, And they kneel and pray together for the care of God at night; They are romping with their children in the fields of clover sweet, And devotedly they guard them from the perils of the street.
They are here in countless numbers, just as they have always been, And their glory is untainted by the selfish and the mean. And I'd hate to still be living, it would dismal be and sad, If we'd no old-fashioned mother and we'd no old-fashioned dad.
The Fun of Forgiving
Sometimes I'm almost glad to hear when I get home that they've been bad; And though I try to look severe, within my heart I'm really glad When mother sadly tells to me the list of awful things they've done, Because when they come tearfully, forgiving them is so much fun.
I like to have them all alone, with no one near to hear or see, Then as their little faults they own, I like to take them on my knee And talk it over and pretend the whipping soon must be begun; And then to kiss them at the end--forgiving them is so much fun.
Within the world there's no such charm as children penitent and sad, Who put two soft and chubby arms around your neck, when they've been bad. And as you view their trembling lips, away your temper starts to run, And from your mind all anger slips--forgiving them is so much fun.
If there were nothing to forgive I wonder if we'd love them so; If they were wise enough to live as grown-ups do, and always go Along the pleasant path of right, with ne'er a fault from sun to sun, A lot of joys we'd miss at night--forgiving them is so much fun.
Tonsils
One day the doctor came because my throat was feeling awful sore, And when he looked inside to see he said: "It's like it was before; It's tonserlitis, sure enough. You'd better tell her Pa to-day To make his mind up now to have that little party right away."
I'd heard him talk that way before when Bud was sick, and so I knew That what they did to him that time, to me they planned to come and do. An' when my Pa came home that night Ma said: "She can't grow strong and stout Until the doctor comes an' takes her addynoids an' tonsils out."
An' then Pa took me on his knee and kissed me solemn-like an' grave, An' said he guessed it was the best, an' then he asked me to be brave. Ma said: "Don't look at her like that, it's nothing to be scared about"; An' Pa said: "True, but still I wish she needn't have her tonsils out."
Next morning when I woke, Ma said I couldn't have my breakfast then, Because the doctors and the nurse had said they would be here by ten. When they got here the doctor smiled an' gave me some perfume to smell, An' told me not to cry at all, coz pretty soon I would be well.
When I woke up Ma smiled an' said: "It's all right now"; but in my head It seemed like wheels were buzzing round and everywhere I looked was red. An' I can't eat hard cookies yet, nor use my voice at all to shout, But Pa an' Ma seem awful glad that I have had my tonsils out.
At Dawn
They come to my room at the break of the day, With their faces all smiles and their minds full of play; They come on their tip-toes and silently creep To the edge of the bed where I'm lying asleep, And then at a signal, on which they agree, With a shout of delight they jump right onto me.
They lift up my eyelids and tickle my nose, And scratch at my cheeks with their little pink toes; And sometimes to give them a laugh and a scare I snap and I growl like a cinnamon bear; Then over I roll, and with three kids astride I gallop away on their feather-bed ride.
I've thought it all over. Man's biggest mistake Is in wanting to sleep when his babes are awake; When they come to his room for that first bit of fun He should make up his mind that his sleeping is done; He should share in the laughter they bring to his side And start off the day with that feather-bed ride.
Oh they're fun at their breakfast and fun at their lunch; Any hour of the day they're a glorious bunch! When they're togged up for Sundays they're certainly fine, And I'm glad in my heart I can call them all mine, But I think that the time that I like them the best Is that hour in the morning before they are dressed.
Names and Faces
I do not ask a store of wealth, Nor special gift of power; I hope always for strength and health To brave each troubled hour. But life would be distinctly good, However low my place is, Had I a memory that could Remember names and faces.
I am not troubled by the fact That common skill is mine; I care not that my life has lacked The glory of the fine. But, oh, when someone speaks to me, My cheeks grow red with shame Because I'm sure that he must see That I have lost his name.
Embarrassment, where'er I go, Pursues me night and day; I hear some good friend's glad "Hello," And stop a word to say. His voice melodiously may ring, But that's all lost on me, For all the time I'm wondering Whoever can he be.
I envy no man's talent rare Save his who can repeat The names of men, no matter where It is they chance to meet. For he escapes the bitter blow, The sorrow and regret, Of greeting friends he ought to know As though they'd never met.
I do not ask a store of gold, High station here, or fame; I have no burning wish to hold The popular acclaim; Life's lanes I'd gladly journey through, Nor mind the stony places, Could I but do as others do And know men's names and faces!
Pleasing Dad
When I was but a little lad, not more than two or three, I noticed in a general way my dad was proud of me. He liked the little ways I had, the simple things I said; Sometimes he gave me words of praise, sometimes he stroked my head; And when I'd done a thing worth while, the thought that made me glad Was always that I'd done my best, and that would please my dad.
I can look back to-day and see how proud he used to be When I'd come home from school and say they'd recommended me. I didn't understand it then, for school boys never do, But in a vague and general way it seems to me I knew That father took great pride in me, and wanted me to shine, And that it meant a lot to him when I'd done something fine.
Then one day out of school I went, amid the great world's hum, An office boy, and father watched each night to see me come. And I recall how proud he was of me that wondrous day When I could tell him that, unasked, the firm had raised my pay. I still can feel that hug he gave, I understand the joy It meant to him to learn that men were trusting in his boy.
I wonder will it please my dad? How oft the thought occurs When I am stumbling on the paths, beset with briars and burrs! He isn't here to see me now, alone my race I run, And yet some day I'll go to him and tell him all I've done. And oh I pray that when we meet beyond life's stormy sea That he may claim the old-time joy of being proud of me.
Living Flowers
"I'm never alone in the garden," he said. "I'm never alone with the flowers. It seems like I'm meeting the wonderful dead out here with these blossoms of ours. An' there's never a bush or a plant or a tree, but somebody loved it of old. An' the souls of the angels come talkin' to me through the petals of crimson an' gold.
"The lilacs in spring bring the mother once more, an' she lives in the midsummer rose. She smiles in the peony clump at the door, an' sings when the four o'clocks close. She loved every blossom God gave us to own, an' daily she gave it her care. So never I walk in the garden alone, for I feel that the mother's still there.
"These are the pinks that a baby once kissed, still spicy with fragrance an' fair. The years have been long since her laughter I've missed, but her spirit is hovering there. The roses that ramble and twine on the wall were planted by one that was kind An' I'm sure as I stand here an' gaze on them all, that his soul has still lingered behind.
"I'm never alone in the garden," he said, "I have many to talk with an' see, For never a flower comes to bloom in its bed, but it brings back a loved one to me. An' I fancy whenever I'm bendin' above these blossoms of crimson an' gold, That I'm seein' an' hearin' the ones that I love, who lived in the glad days of old."
The Common Joys
These joys are free to all who live, The rich and poor, the great and low: The charms which kindness has to give, The smiles which friendship may bestow, The honor of a well-spent life, The glory of a purpose true, High courage in the stress of strife, And peace when every task is through.
Nor class nor caste nor race nor creed, Nor greater might can take away The splendor of an honest deed. Who nobly serves from day to day Shall walk the road of life with pride, With friends who recognize his worth, For never are these joys denied Unto the humblest man on earth.
Not all may rise to world-wide fame, Not all may gather fortune's gold, Not all life's luxuries may claim; In differing ways success is told. But all may know the peace of mind Which comes from service brave and true; The poorest man can still be kind, And nobly live till life is through.
These joys abound for one and all: The pride of fearing no man's scorn, Of standing firm, where others fall, Of bearing well what must be borne. He that shall do an honest deed Shall win an honest deed's rewards; For these, no matter race or creed, Life unto every man affords.
His Example
There are little eyes upon you, and they're watching night and day; There are little ears that quickly take in every word you say; There are little hands all eager to do everything you do, And a little boy that's dreaming of the day he'll be like you.
You're the little fellow's idol, you're the wisest of the wise; In his little mind about you no suspicions ever rise; He believes in you devoutly, holds that all you say and do He will say and do in your way when he's grown up just like you.
Oh, it sometimes makes me shudder when I hear my boy repeat Some careless phrase I've uttered in the language of the street; And it sets my heart to grieving when some little fault I see And I know beyond all doubting that he picked it up from me.
There's a wide-eyed little fellow who believes you're always right, And his ears are always open and he watches day and night; You are setting an example every day in all you do For the little boy who's waiting to grow up to be like you.
The Change-Worker
A feller don't start in to think of himself, an' the part that he's playin' down here, When there's nobody lookin' to him fer support, an' he don't give a thought to next year. His faults don't seem big an' his habits no worse than a whole lot of others he knows, An' he don't seem to care what his neighbors may say, as heedlessly forward he goes. He don't stop to think if it's wrong or it's right; with his speech he is careless or glib, Till the minute the nurse lets him into the room to see what's asleep in the crib.
An' then as he looks at that bundle o' red, an' the wee little fingers an' toes, An' he knows it's his flesh an' his blood that is there, an' will be just like him when it grows, It comes in a flash to a feller right then, there is more here than pleasure or pelf, An' the sort of a man his baby will be is the sort of a man he's himself. Then he kisses the mother an' kisses the child, an' goes out determined that he Will endeavor to be just the sort of a man that he's wantin' his baby to be.
A feller don't think that it matters so much what he does till a baby arrives; He sows his wild oats an' he has his gay fling an' headlong in pleasure he dives; An' a drink more or less doesn't matter much then, for life is a comedy gay, But the moment a crib is put in the home, an' a baby has come there to stay, He thinks of the things he has done in the past, an' it strikes him as hard as a blow, That the path he has trod in the past is a path that he don't want his baby to go.
I ain't much to preach, an' I can't just express in the way that your clever men can The thoughts that I think, but it seems to me now that when God wants to rescue a man From himself an' the follies that harmless appear, but which, under the surface, are grim, He summons the angel of infancy sweet, an' sends down a baby to him. For in that way He opens his eyes to himself, and He gives him the vision to see That his duty's to be just the sort of a man that he's wantin' his baby to be.
A Convalescin' Woman
A convalescin' woman does the strangest sort o' things, An' it's wonderful the courage that a little new strength brings; O, it's never safe to leave her for an hour or two alone, Or you'll find th' doctor's good work has been quickly overthrown. There's that wife o' mine, I reckon she's a sample of 'em all; She's been mighty sick, I tell you, an' to-day can scarcely crawl, But I left her jes' this mornin' while I fought potater bugs, An' I got back home an' caught her in the back yard shakin' rugs.
I ain't often cross with Nellie, an' I let her have her way, But it made me mad as thunder when I got back home to-day An' found her doin' labor that'd tax a big man's strength; An' I guess I lost my temper, for I scolded her at length, 'Til I seen her teardrops fallin' an' she said: "I couldn't stand To see those rugs so dirty, so I took 'em all in hand, An' it ain't hurt me nuther--see, I'm gettin' strong again--" An' I said: "Doggone it! can't ye leave sich work as that fer men?"
Once I had her in a hospittle fer weeks an' weeks an' weeks, An' she wasted most to nothin', an' th' roses left her cheeks; An' one night I feared I'd lose her; 'twas the turnin' point, I guess, Coz th' next day I remember that th' doctor said: "Success!" Well, I brought her home an' told her that for two months she must stay A-sittin' in her rocker an' jes' watch th' kids at play. An' th' first week she was patient, but I mind the way I swore On th' day when I discovered 'at she'd scrubbed th' kitchen floor.
O, you can't keep wimmin quiet, an' they ain't a bit like men; They're hungerin' every minute jes' to get to work again; An' you've got to watch 'em allus, when you know they're weak an' ill, Coz th' minute that yer back is turned they'll labor fit to kill. Th' house ain't cleaned to suit 'em an' they seem to fret an' fume 'Less they're busy doin' somethin' with a mop or else a broom; An' it ain't no use to scold 'em an' it ain't no use to swear, Coz th' next time they will do it jes' the minute you ain't there.
The Doubtful To-Morrow
Whenever I walk through God's Acres of Dead I wonder how often the mute voices said: "I will do a kind deed or will lighten a sorrow Or rise to a sacrifice splendid--to-morrow."
I wonder how many fine thoughts unexpressed Were lost to the world when they went to their rest; I wonder what beautiful deeds they'd have done If they had but witnessed to-morrow's bright sun.
Oh, if the dead grieve, it is not for their fate, For death comes to all of us early or late, But their sighs of regret and their burdens of sorrow Are born of the joys they'd have scattered to-morrow.
Do the friends they'd have cheered know the thoughts of the dead? Do they treasure to-day the last words that were said? What mem'ries would sweeten, what hearts cease to burn, If but for a day the dead friends could return!
We know not the hour that our summons shall come; We know not the time that our voice shall be dumb, Yet even as they, to our ultimate sorrow, We leave much that's fine for that doubtful to-morrow.
Tommy Atkins' Way
He was battle-scarred and ugly with the marks of shot and shell, And we knew that British Tommy had a stirring tale to tell, So we asked him where he got it and what disarranged his face, And he answered, blushing scarlet: "In a nawsty little place."
There were medals on his jacket, but he wouldn't tell us why. "A bit lucky, gettin' this one," was the sum of his reply. He had fought a horde of Prussians with his back against the wall, And he told us, when we questioned: "H'it was nothing arfter h'all."
Not a word of what he'd suffered, not a word of what he'd seen, Not a word about the fury of the hell through which he'd been. All he said was: "When you're cornered, h'and you've got no plyce to go, You've just got to stand up to it! You cawn't 'elp yourself, you know.