Chapter 1
WHEN DAY IS DONE
by
EDGAR A. GUEST
1921
To S.H.D. A real friend who never knows when day is done
INDEX
Age of Ink, The All for the Best Always Saying "Don't!" Autumn Evenings Aw Gee Whiz!
Bedtime Better Job, The Bob White Book of Memory. The Boy and His Dad, A Boy and His Dog, A Boy and His Stomach, A Boy and the Flag, The Boy O'Mine Brothers All
Call of the Woods, The "Carry On" Castor Oil Chip on Your Shoulder, The Christmas Carol, A Christmas Gift for Mother, The Cleaning the Furnace Committee Meetings Contradictin' Joe Cookie Jar, The Couldn't Live Without You Cure for Weariness, The
Dan McGann Declares Himself Deeds of Anger, The
Family Row, A Father's Wish, A Feller's Hat, A Fellowship of Books, The Forgotten Boyhood
God Made This Day for Me Golf Luck Good Little Boy, The Grate Fire, The Green Apple Time
Happy Man, The He's Taken Out His Papers Home and the Office Homely Man, The How Do You Buy Your Money?
I Ain't Dead Yet I'd Rather Be a Failure If I Had Youth If This Were All
Joys of Home, The Joys We Miss, The Just a Boy
Kick Under the Table, The
Leader of the Gang Learn to Smile Life Is What We Make It Life's Single Standard Little Girls Are Best Little Wrangles Lonely Looking Back Loss Is Not So Great, The Lucky Man, The
Ma and the Ouija Board Making of Friends, The Memorial Day Mother's Day My Religion
No Better Land Than This No Children! No Room for Hate Nothing to Laugh At No Use Sighin'
Old Mister Laughter Old Years and New
Pa and the Monthly Bills Peaks of Valor, The Practicing Time Pretending Not to See
Safe at Home Satisfied With Life She Mothered Five She Powders Her Nose Simple' Things, The Sittin' on the Porch Song of the Builder, The Spoiler, The Summer Dreams
Things You Can't Forget, The Three Me's, The To a Little Girl To an Old Friend Too Big a Price Trouble Brings Friends True Man, The
Vanished Joy, A
"Wait Till Your Pa Comes Home" We're Dreamers All What Home's Intended For What I Call Living What Is Success? What Makes an Artist What We Need When Day Is Done When Friends Drop In When Ma Wants Something New When Mother's Sewing Buttons On When Sorrow Comes When The Minister Calls When We Play the Fool When We're All Alike When We Understand the Plan Where Children Play "Where's Mamma?" Wide Outdoors, The Willing Horse, The With Dog and Gun World and Bud, The
When Day Is Done
When day is done and the night slips down, And I've turned my back on the busy town, And come once more to the welcome gate Where the roses nod and the children wait, I tell myself as I see them smile That life is good and its tasks worth while.
When day is done and I've come once more To my quiet street and the friendly door, Where the Mother reigns and the children play And the kettle sings in the old-time way, I throw my coat on a near-by chair And say farewell to my pack of care.
When day is done, all the hurt and strife And the selfishness and the greed of life, Are left behind in the busy town; I've ceased to worry about renown Or gold or fame, and I'm just a dad, Content to be with his girl and lad.
Whatever the day has brought of care, Here love and laughter are mine to share, Here I can claim what the rich desire-- Rest and peace by a ruddy fire, The welcome words which the loved ones speak And the soft caress of a baby's cheek.
When day is done and I reach my gate, I come to a realm where there is no hate, For here, whatever my worth may be, Are those who cling to their faith in me; And with love on guard at my humble door, I have all that the world has struggled for.
The Simple Things
I would not be too wise--so very wise That I must sneer at simple songs and creeds, And let the glare of wisdom blind my eyes To humble people and their humble needs.
I would not care to climb so high that I Could never hear the children at their play, Could only see the people passing by, And never hear the cheering words they say.
I would not know too much--too much to smile At trivial errors of the heart and hand, Nor be too proud to play the friend the while, Nor cease to help and know and understand.
I would not care to sit upon a throne, Or build my house upon a mountain-top, Where I must dwell in glory all alone And never friend come in or poor man stop.
God grant that I may live upon this earth And face the tasks which every morning brings And never lose the glory and the worth Of humble service and the simple things.
Life Is What We Make It
Life is a jest; Take the delight of it. Laughter is best; Sing through the night of it. Swiftly the tear And the hurt and the ache of it Find us down here; Life must be what we make of it.
Life is a song; Dance to the thrill of it. Grief's hours are long, And cold is the chill of it. Joy is man's need; Let us smile for the sake of it. This be our creed: Life must be what we make of it.
Life is a soul; The virtue and vice of it, Strife for a goal, And man's strength is the price of it. Your life and mine, The bare bread and the cake of it End in this line: Life must be what we make of it.
What We Need
We were settin' there an' smokin' of our pipes, discussin' things, Like licker, votes for wimmin, an' the totterin'thrones o' kings, When he ups an' strokes his whiskers with his hand an' says t'me: "Changin' laws an' legislatures ain't, as fur as I can see, Goin' to make this world much better, unless somehow we can Find a way to make a better an' a finer sort o' man.
"The trouble ain't with statutes or with systems--not at all; It's with humans jest like we air an' their petty ways an' small. We could stop our writin' law-books an' our regulatin' rules If a better sort of manhood was the product of our schools. For the things that we air needin' ain't no writin' from a pen Or bigger guns to shoot with, but a bigger typeof men.
"I reckon all these problems air jest ornery like the weeds. They grow in soil that oughta nourish only decent deeds, An' they waste our time an' fret us when, if we were thinkin' straight An' livin' right, they wouldn't be so terrible an' great. A good horse needs no snaffle, an' a good man, I opine, Doesn't need a law to check him or to force him into line.
"If we ever start in teachin' to our children, year by year, How to live with one another, there'll be less o' trouble here. If we'd teach 'em how to neighbor an' to walk in honor's ways, We could settle every problem which the mind o' man can raise. What we're needin' isn't systems or some regulatin' plan, But a bigger an' a finer an' a truer type o' man."
A Boy and His Dad
A boy and his dad on a fishing-trip-- There is a glorious fellowship! Father and son and the open sky And the white clouds lazily drifting by, And the laughing stream as it runs along With the clicking reel like a martial song, And the father teaching the youngster gay How to land a fish in the sportsman's way.
I fancy I hear them talking there In an open boat, and the speech is fair; And the boy is learning the ways of men From the finest man in his youthful ken. Kings, to the youngster, cannot compare With the gentle father who's with him there. And the greatest mind of the human race Not for one minute could take his place.
Which is happier, man or boy? The soul of the father is steeped in joy, For he's finding out, to his heart's delight, That his son is fit for the future fight. He is learning the glorious depths of him, And the thoughts he thinks and his every whim, And he shall discover, when night comes on, How close he has grown to his little son.
A boy and his dad on a fishing-trip-- Oh, I envy them, as I see them there Under the sky in the open air, For out of the old, old long-ago Come the summer days that I used to know, When I learned life's truths from my father's lips As I shared the joy of his fishing-trips-- Builders of life's companionship!
If I Had Youth
If I had youth I'd bid the world to try me; I'd answer every challenge to my will. And though the silent mountains should defy me, I'd try to make them subject to my skill. I'd keep my dreams and follow where they led me; I'd glory in the hazards which abound. I'd eat the simple fare privations fed me, And gladly make my couch upon the ground.
If I had youth I'd ask no odds of distance, Nor wish to tread the known and level ways. I'd want to meet and master strong resistance, And in a worth-while struggle spend my days. I'd seek the task which calls for full endeavor; I'd feel the thrill of battle in my veins. I'd bear my burden gallantly, and never Desert the hills to walk on common plains.
If I had youth no thought of failure lurking Beyond to-morrow's dawn should fright my soul. Let failure strike--it still should find me working With faith that I should some day reach my goal. I'd dice with danger--aye!--and glory in it; I'd make high stakes the purpose of my throw. I'd risk for much, and should I fail to win it, I would not ever whimper at the blow.
If I had youth no chains of fear should bind me; I'd brave the heights which older men must shun. I'd leave the well-worn lanes of life behind me, And seek to do what men have never done. Rich prizes wait for those who do not waver; The world needs men to battle for the truth. It calls each hour for stronger hearts and braver. This is the age for those who still have youth!
Looking Back
I might have been rich if I'd wanted the gold instead of the friendships I've made. I might have had fame if I'd sought for renown in the hours when I purposely played. Now I'm standing to-day on the far edge of life, and I'm just looking backward to see What I've done with the years and the days that were mine, and all that has happened to me.
I haven't built much of a fortune to leave to those who shall carry my name, And nothing I've done shall entitle me now to a place on the tablets of fame. But I've loved the great sky and its spaces of blue; I've lived with the birds and the trees; I've turned from the splendor of silver and gold to share in such pleasures as these.
I've given my time to the children who came; together we've romped and we've played, And I wouldn't exchange the glad hours spent with them for the money that I might have made. I chose to be known and be loved by the few, and was deaf to the plaudits of men; And I'd make the same choice should the chance come to me to live my life over again.
I've lived with my friends and I've shared in their joys, known sorrow with all of its tears; I have harvested much from my acres of life, though some say I've squandered my years. For much that is fine has been mine to enjoy, and I think I have lived to my best, And I have no regret, as I'm nearing the end, for the gold that I might have possessed.
God Made This Day for Me
Jes' the sort o' weather and jes' the sort of sky Which seem to suit my fancy, with the white clouds driftin' by On a sea o' smooth blue water. Oh, I ain't an egotist, With an "I" in all my thinkin', but I'm willin' to insist That the Lord who made us humans an' the birds in every tree Knows my special sort o' weather an' he made this day fer me.
This is jes' my style o' weather--sunshine floodin' all the place, An' the breezes from the eastward blowin' gently on my face; An' the woods chock full o' singin' till you'd think birds never had A single care to fret 'em or a grief to make 'em sad. Oh, I settle down contented in the shadow of a tree, An' tell myself right proudly that the day was made fer me.
It's my day, my sky an' sunshine, an' the temper o' the breeze-- Here's the weather I would fashion could I run things as I please: Beauty dancin' all around me, music ringin' everywhere, Like a weddin' celebration--why, I've plumb fergot my care An' the tasks I should be doin' fer the rainy days to be, While I'm huggin' the delusion that God made this day fer me.
The Grate Fire
I'm sorry for a fellow if he cannot look and see In a grate fire's friendly flaming all the joys which used to be. If in quiet contemplation of a cheerful ruddy blaze He sees nothing there recalling all his happy yesterdays, Then his mind is dead to fancy and his life is bleak and bare, And he's doomed to walk the highways that are always thick with care.
When the logs are dry as tinder and they crackle with the heat, And the sparks, like merry children, come a-dancing round my feet, In the cold, long nights of autumn I can sit before the blaze And watch a panorama born of all my yesterdays. I can leave the present burdens and the moment's bit of woe, And claim once more the gladness of the bygone long-ago.
No loved ones ever vanish from the grate fire's merry throng; No hands in death are folded and no lips are stilled to song. All the friends who were are living--like the sparks that fly about They come romping out to greet me with the same old merry shout, Till it seems to me I'm playing once again on boyhood's stage, Where there's no such thing as sorrow and there's no such thing as age.
I can be the care-free schoolboy! I can play the lover, too! I can walk through Maytime orchards with the old sweetheart I knew, I can dream the glad dreams over, greet the old familiar friends In a land where there's no parting and the laughter never ends. All the gladness life has given from a grate fire I reclaim, And I'm sorry for the fellow-who sees nothing there but flame.
The Homely Man
Looks as though a cyclone hit him-- Can't buy clothes that seem to fit him; An' his cheeks are rough like leather, Made for standin' any weather. Outwards he was fashioned plainly, Loose o' joint an' blamed ungainly, But I'd give a lot if I'd Been built half as fine inside.
Best thing I can tell you of him Is the way the children love him. Now an' then I get to thinkin' He's much like old Abe Lincoln; Homely like a gargoyle graven-- Worse'n that when he's unshaven; But I'd take his ugly phiz Jes' to have a heart like his.
I ain't over-sentimental, But old Blake is so blamed gentle An' so thoughtfull-like of others He reminds us of our mothers. Rough roads he is always smoothing An' his way is, Oh, so soothin', That he takes away the sting When your heart is sorrowing.
Children gather round about him Like they can't get on without him. An' the old depend upon him, Pilin' all their burdens on him, Like as though the thing that grieves 'em Has been lifted when he leaves 'em. Homely? That can't be denied, But he's glorious inside.
The Joys We Miss
There never comes a lonely day but that we miss the laughing ways Of those who used to walk with us through all our happy yesterdays. We seldom miss the earthly great--the famous men that life has known-- But, as the years go racing by, we miss the friends we used to own.
The chair wherein he used to sit recalls the kindly father true For, Oh, so filled with fun he was, and, Oh, so very much he knew! And as we face the problems grave with which the years of life are filled. We miss the hand which guided us and miss the voice forever stilled.
We little guessed how much he did to smooth our pathway day by day, How much of joy he brought to us, how much of care he brushed away; But now that we must tread alone the thorough-fare of life, we find How many burdens we were spared by him who was so brave and kind.
Death robs the living, not the dead--they sweetly sleep whose tasks are done; But we are weaker than before who still must live and labor on. For when come care and grief to us, and heavy burdens bring us woe, We miss the smiling, helpful friends on whom we leaned long years ago.
We miss the happy, tender ways of those who brought us mirth and cheer; We never gather round the hearth but that we wish our friends were near; For peace is born of simple things--a kindly word, a goodnight kiss, The prattle of a babe, and love--these are the vanished joys we miss.
The Fellowship of Books
I care not who the man may be, Nor how his tasks may fret him, Nor where he fares, nor how his cares And troubles may beset him, If books have won the love of him, Whatever fortune hands him, He'll always own, when he's alone, A friend who understands him.
Though other friends may come and go, And some may stoop to treason, His books remain, through loss or gain, And season after season The faithful friends for every mood, His joy and sorrow sharing, For old time's sake, they'll lighter make The burdens he is bearing.
Oh, he has counsel at his side, And wisdom for his duty, And laughter gay for hours of play, And tenderness and beauty, And fellowship divinely rare, True friends who never doubt him, Unchanging love, and God above, Who keeps good books about him.
When Sorrow Comes
When sorrow comes, as come it must, In God a man must place his trust. There is no power in mortal speech The anguish of his soul to reach, No voice, however sweet and low, Can comfort him or ease the blow.
He cannot from his fellowmen Take strength that will sustain him then. With all that kindly hands will do, And all that love may offer, too, He must believe throughout the test That God has willed it for the best.
We who would be his friends are dumb; Words from our lips but feebly come; We feel, as we extend our hands, That one Power only understands And truly knows the reason why So beautiful a soul must die.
We realize how helpless then Are all the gifts of mortal men. No words which we have power to say Can take the sting of grief away-- That Power which marks the sparrow's fall Must comfort and sustain us all.
When sorrow comes, as come it must, In God a man must place his trust. With all the wealth which he may own, He cannot meet the test alone, And only he may stand serene Who has a faith on which to lean.
Golf Luck
As a golfer I'm not one who cops the money; I shall always be a member of the dubs; There are times my style is positively funny; I am awkward in my handling of the clubs. I am not a skillful golfer, nor a plucky, But this about myself I proudly say-- When I win a hole by freaky stroke or lucky, I never claim I played the shot that way.
There are times, despite my blundering behavior, When fortune seems to follow at my heels; Now and then I play supremely in her favor, And she lets me pull the rankest sort of steals; She'll give to me the friendliest assistance, I'll jump a ditch at times when I should not, I'll top the ball and get a lot of distance-- But I don't claim that's how I played the shot.
I've hooked a ball when just that hook I needed, And wondered how I ever turned the trick; I've thanked my luck for what a friendly tree did, Although my fortune made my rival sick; Sometimes my shots turn out just as I planned 'em, The sort of shots I usually play, But when up to the cup I chance to land 'em, I never claim I played 'em just that way.
There's little in my game that will commend me; I'm not a shark who shoots the course in par; I need good fortune often to befriend me; I have my faults and know just what they are. I play golf in a desperate do-or-die way, And into traps and trouble oft I stray, But when by chance the breaks are coming my way, I do not claim I played the shots that way.
Contradictin' Joe
Heard of Contradictin' Joe? Most contrary man I know. Always sayin', "That's not so."
Nothing's ever said, but he Steps right up to disagree-- Quarrelsome as he can be.
If you start in to recite All the details of a fight, He'll butt in to set you right.
Start a story that is true, He'll begin correctin' you-- Make you out a liar, too!
Mention time o' year or day, Makes no difference what you say, Nothing happened just that way.
Bet you, when his soul takes flight, An' the angels talk at night, He'll butt in to set 'em right.
There where none should have complaints He will be with "no's" and "ain'ts" Contradictin' all the saints.
The Better Job
If I were running a factory I'd stick up a sign for all to see; I'd print it large and I'd nail it high On every wall that the men walked by; And I'd have it carry this sentence clear: "The 'better job' that you want is here!"
It's the common trait of the human race To pack up and roam from place to place; Men have done it for ages and do it now; Seeking to better themselves somehow They quit their posts and their tools they drop For a better job in another shop.
It may be I'm wrong, but I hold to this-- That something surely must be amiss When a man worth while must move away For the better job with the better pay; And something is false in our own renown When men can think of a better town.
So if I were running a factory I'd stick up this sign for all to see, Which never an eye in the place could miss: "There isn't a better town than this! You need not go wandering, far or near-- The 'better job' that you want is here!"
My Religion
My religion's lovin' God, who made us, one and all, Who marks, no matter where it be, the humble sparrow's fall; An' my religion's servin' Him the very best I can By not despisin' anything He made, especially man! It's lovin' sky an' earth an' sun an' birds an' flowers an' trees, But lovin' human beings more than any one of these.
I ain't no hand at preachin' an' I can't expound the creeds; I fancy every fellow's faith must satisfy his needs Or he would hunt for something else. An' I can't tell the why An' wherefore of the doctrines deep--and what's more I don't try. I reckon when this life is done and we can know His plan, God won't be hard on anyone who's tried to be a man.
My religion doesn't hinge on some one rite or word; I hold that any honest prayer a mortal makes is heard; To love a church is well enough, but some get cold with pride An' quite forget their fellowmen for whom the Saviour died; I fancy he best worships God, when all is said an' done, Who tries to be, from day to day, a friend to everyone.
If God can mark the sparrow's fall, I don't believe He'll fail To notice us an' how we act when doubts an' fears assail; I think He'll hold what's in our hearts above what's in our creeds, An' judge all our religion here by our recorded deeds; An' since man is God's greatest work since life on earth began, He'll get to Heaven, I believe, who helps his fellowman.
What I Call Living
The miser thinks he's living when he's hoarding up his gold; The soldier calls it living when he's doing something bold; The sailor thinks it living to be tossed upon the sea, And upon this vital subject no two of us agree. But I hold to the opinion, as I walk my way along, That living's made of laughter and good-fellowship and song.
I wouldn't call it living always to be seeking gold, To bank all the present gladness for the days when I'll be old. I wouldn't call it living to spend all my strength for fame, And forego the many pleasures which to-day are mine to claim. I wouldn't for the splendor of the world set out to roam, And forsake my laughing children and the peace I know at home. Oh, the thing that I call living isn't gold or fame at all!
It's good-fellowship and sunshine, and it's roses by the wall; It's evenings glad with music and a hearth fire that's ablaze, And the joys which come to mortals in a thousand different ways. It is laughter and contentment and the struggle for a goal; It is everything that's needful in the shaping of a soul.
If This Were All
If this were all of life we'll know, If this brief space of breath Were all there is to human toil, If death were really death, And never should the soul arise A finer world to see, How foolish would our struggles seem, How grim the earth would be!
If living were the whole of life, To end in seventy years, How pitiful its joys would seem! How idle all its tears! There'd be no faith to keep us true, No hope to keep us strong, And only fools would cherish dreams-- No smile would last for long.