Chapter 2

How purposeless the strife would be If there were nothing more, If there were not a plan to serve, An end to struggle for! No reason for a mortal's birth Except to have him die-- How silly all the goals would seem For which men bravely try.

There must be something after death; Behind the toil of man There must exist a God divine Who's working out a plan; And this brief journey that we know As life must really be The gateway to a finer world That some day we shall see.

A Christmas Carol

God bless you all this Christmas Day And drive the cares and griefs away. Oh, may the shining Bethlehem star Which led the wise men from afar Upon your heads, good sirs, still glow To light the path that ye should go.

As God once blessed the stable grim And made it radiant for Him; As it was fit to shield His Son, May thy roof be a holy one; May all who come this house to share Rest sweetly in His gracious care.

Within thy walls may peace abide, The peace for which the Savior died. Though humble be the rafters here, Above them may the stars shine clear, And in this home thou lovest well May excellence of spirit dwell.

God bless you all this Christmas Day; May Bethlehem's star still light thy way And guide thee to the perfect peace When every fear and doubt shall cease. And may thy home such glory know As did the stable long ago.

Forgotten Boyhood

He wears a long and solemn face And drives the children from his place; He doesn't like to hear them shout Or race and run and romp about, And if they chance to climb his tree, He is as ugly as can be. If in his yard they drive a ball, Which near his pretty flowers should fall, He hides the leather sphere away, Thus hoping to prevent their play.

The youngsters worry him a lot, This sorry man who has forgot That once upon a time, he too The self-same mischief used to do. The boyhood he has left behind Has strangely vanished from his mind, And he is old and gray and cross For having suffered such a loss. He thinks he never had the joy That is the birthright of a boy.

He has forgotten how he ran, Or to a dog's tail tied a can, Broke window panes, and loved to swipe Some neighbor's apples, red and ripe-- He thinks that always, day or night, His conduct was exactly right. In boys to-day he cannot see The youngster that he used to be, Forgotten is that by-gone day, When he was mischievous as they.

Poor man! I'm sorry for your lot. The best of life you have forgot. Could you remember what you were, Unharnessed and untouched by spur, These youngsters that you drive away Would be your comrades here to-day. Among them you could gayly walk And share their laughter and their talk; You could be young and blithe as they, Could you recall your yesterday.

The Peaks of Valor

These are the peaks of valor; keeping clean your father's name, Too brave for petty profit to risk the brand of shame, Adventuring for the future, yet mindful of the past, For God, for country and for home, still valorous to the last.

These are the peaks of valor: a speech that knows no lie, A standard of what's right and wrong which no man's wealth can buy, All unafraid of failure, to venture forth to fight, Yet never for the victory's sake to turn away from right.

Ten thousand times the victor is he who fails to win, Who could have worn the conqueror's crown by stooping low in sin; Ten thousand times the braver is he who turns away And scorns to crush a weaker man that he may rule the day.

These are the peaks of valor: standing firm and standing true To the best your father taught you and the best you've learned anew, Helpful to all who need you, winning what joys you can, Writing in triumph to the end your record as a man.

When the Minister Calls

My Paw says that it used to be, Whenever the minister came for tea, 'At they sat up straight in their chairs at night An' put all their common things out o' sight, An' nobody cracked a joke or grinned, But they talked o' the way that people sinned, An' the burnin' fires that would cook you sure When you came to die, if you wasn't pure-- Such a gloomy affair it used to be Whenever the minister came for tea.

But now when the minister comes to call I get him out for a game of ball, And you'd never know if you'd see him bat, Without any coat or vest or hat, That he is a minister, no, siree! He looks like a regular man to me. An' he knows just how to go down to the dirt For the grounders hot without gettin' hurt-- An' when they call us, both him an' me Have to git washed up again for tea.

Our minister says if you'll just play fair You'll be fit for heaven or anywhere; An' fun's all right if your hands are clean An' you never cheat an' you don't get mean. He says that he never has understood Why a feller can't play an' still be good. An' my Paw says that he's just the kind Of a minister that he likes to find-- So I'm always tickled as I can be Whenever our minister comes for tea.

The Age of Ink

Swiftly the changes come. Each day Sees some lost beauty blown away And some new touch of lovely grace Come into life to take its place. The little babe that once we had One morning woke a roguish lad; The babe that we had put to bed Out of our arms and lives had fled.

Frocks vanished from our castle then, Ne'er to be worn or seen again, And in his knickerbocker pride He boasted pockets at each side And stored them deep with various things-- Stones, tops and jacks and-colored strings; Then for a time we claimed the joy Of calling him our little boy.

Brief was the reign of such a spell. One morning sounded out a bell; With tears I saw her brown eyes swim And knew that it was calling him. Time, the harsh master of us all, Was bidding him to heed his call; This shadow fell across life's pool-- Our boy was on his way to school.

Our little boy! And still we dreamed, For such a little boy he seemed! And yesterday, with eyes aglow Like one who has just come to know Some great and unexpected bliss, He bounded in, announcing this: "Oh, Dad! Oh, Ma! Say, what d'you think? This year we're going to write with ink!"

Here was a change I'd not foreseen, Another step from what had been. I paused a little while to think About this older age of ink-- What follows this great step, thought I, What next shall come as the time goes by? And something said: "His pathway leads Unto the day he'll write with deeds."

No Use Sighin'

No use frettin' when the rain comes down, No use grievin' when the gray clouds frown, No use sighin' when the wind blows strong, No use wailin' when the world's all wrong; Only thing that a man can do Is work an' wait till the sky gets blue.

No use mopin' when you lose the game, No use sobbin' if you're free from shame, No use cryin' when the harm is done, Just keep on tryin' an' workin' on; Only thing for a man to do, Is take the loss an' begin anew.

No use weepin' when the milk is spilled, No use growlin' when your hopes are killed, No use kickin' when the lightnin' strikes Or the floods come along an' wreck your dykes; Only thing for a man right then Is to grit his teeth an' start again.

For it's how life is an' the way things are That you've got to face if you travel far; An' the storms will come an' the failures, too, An' plans go wrong spite of all you do; An' the only thing that will help you win, Is the grit of a man and a stern set chin.

No Children!

No children in the house to play-- It must be hard to live that way! I wonder what the people do When night comes on and the work is through, With no glad little folks to shout, No eager feet to race about, No youthful tongues to chatter on About the joy that's been and gone? The house might be a castle fine, But what a lonely place to dine!

No children in the house at all, No fingermarks upon the wall, No corner where the toys are piled-- Sure indication of a child. No little lips to breathe the prayer That God shall keep you in His care, No glad caress and welcome sweet When night returns you to your street; No little lips a kiss to give-- Oh, what a lonely way to live!

No children in the house! I fear We could not stand it half a year. What would we talk about at night, Plan for and work with all our might, Hold common dreams about and find True union of heart and mind, If we two had no greater care Than what we both should eat and wear? We never knew love's brightest flame Until the day the baby came.

And now we could not get along Without their laughter and their song. Joy is not bottled on a shelf, It cannot feed upon itself, And even love, if it shall wear, Must find its happiness in care; Dull we'd become of mind and speech Had we no little ones to teach. No children in the house to play! Oh, we could never live that way!

The Loss Is Not So Great

It is better as it is: I have failed but I can sleep; Though the pit I now am in is very dark and deep I can walk to-morrow's streets and can meet to-morrow's men Unashamed to face their gaze as I go to work again.

I have lost the hope I had; in the dust are all my dreams, But my loss is not so great or so dreadful as it seems; I made my fight and though I failed I need not slink away For I do not have to fear what another man may say.

They may call me over-bold, they may say that I was frail; They may tell I dared too much and was doomed at last to fail; They may talk my battle o'er and discuss it as they choose, But I did no brother wrong--I'm the only one to lose.

It is better as it is: I have kept my self-respect. I can walk to-morrow's streets meeting all men head erect. No man can charge his loss to a pledge I did not keep; I have no shame to regret: I have failed, but I can sleep.

Dan McGann Declares Himself

Said Dan McGann to a foreign man who worked at the selfsame bench, "Let me tell you this," and for emphasis he flourished a Stilson wrench; "Don't talk to me of the bourjoissee, don't open your mouth to speak Of your socialists or your anarchists, don't mention the bolsheveek, For I've had enough of this foreign stuff, I'm sick as a man can be Of the speech of hate, and I'm tellin' you straight that this is the land for me!

"If you want to brag, just take that flag an' boast of its field o' blue, An' praise the dead an' the blood they shed for the peace o' the likes o' you. Enough you've raved," and once more he waved his wrench in a forceful way, "O' the cunning creed o' some Russian breed; I stand for the U.S.A.! I'm done with your fads, and your wild-eyed lads. Don't flourish your rag o' red Where I can see or by night there'll be tall candles around your bed.

"So tip your hat to a flag like that! Thank God for its stripes an' stars! Thank God you're here where the roads are clear, away from your kings and czars. I can't just say what I feel to-day, for I'm not a talkin' man, But, first an' last, I am standin' fast for all that's American. So don't you speak of the bolsheveek, it's sick of that stuff I am! One God, one flag is the creed I brag! I'm boostin' for Uncle Sam."

A Boy and His Stomach

What's the matter with you--ain't I always been your friend? Ain't I been a pardner to you? All my pennies don't I spend In gettin' nice things for you? Don't I give you lots of cake? Say, stummick, what's the matter, that you had to go an' ache?

Why, I loaded you with good things yesterday, I gave you more Potatoes, squash an' turkey than you'd ever had before. I gave you nuts an' candy, pumpkin pie an' chocolate cake, An' las' night when I got to bed you had to go an' ache.

Say, what's the matter with you--ain't you satisfied at all? I gave you all you wanted, you was hard jes' like a ball, An' you couldn't hold another bit of puddin', yet las' night You ached mos' awful, stummick; that ain't treatin' me jes' right.

I've been a friend to you, I have, why ain't you a friend o' mine? They gave me castor oil last night because you made me whine. I'm awful sick this mornin' an' I'm feelin' mighty blue, 'Cause you don't appreciate the things I do for you.

Home and the Office

Home is the place where the laughter should ring, And man should be found at his best. Let the cares of the day be as great as they may, The night has been fashioned for rest. So leave at the door when the toiling is o'er All the burdens of worktime behind, And just be a dad to your girl or your lad-- A dad of the rollicking kind.

The office is made for the tasks you must face; It is built for the work you must do; You may sit there and sigh as your cares pile up high, And no one may criticize you; You may worry and fret as you think of your debt, You may grumble when plans go astray, But when it comes night, and you shut your desk tight, Don't carry the burdens away.

Keep daytime for toil and the nighttime for play, Work as hard as you choose in the town, But when the day ends, and the darkness descends, Just forget that you're wearing a frown-- Go home with a smile! Oh, you'll find it worth while; Go home light of heart and of mind; Go home and be glad that you're loved as a dad, A dad of the fun-loving kind.

He's Taken Out His Papers

He's taken out his papers, an' he's just like you an' me. He's sworn to love the Stars and Stripes an' die for it, says he. An' he's done with dukes an' princes, an' he's done with kings an' queens, An' he's pledged himself to freedom, for he knows what freedom means.

He's bought himself a bit of ground, an', Lord, he's proud an' glad! For in the land he came from that is what he never had. Now his kids can beat his writin', an' they're readin' books, says he, That the children in his country never get a chance to see.

He's taken out his papers, an' he's prouder than a king: "It means a lot to me," says he, "just like the breath o' spring, For a new life lies before us; we've got hope an' faith an' cheer; We can face the future bravely, an' our kids don't need to fear."

He's taken out his papers, an' his step is light to-day, For a load is off his shoulders an' he treads an easier way; An' he'll tell you, if you ask him, so that you can understand, Just what freedom means to people who have known some other land.

Castor Oil

I don't mind lickin's, now an' then, An' I can even stand it when My mother calls me in from play To run some errand right away. There's things 'bout bein' just a boy That ain't all happiness an' joy, But I suppose I've got to stand My share o' trouble in this land, An' I ain't kickin' much--but, say, The worst of parents is that they Don't realize just how they spoil A feller's life with castor oil.

Of all the awful stuff, Gee Whiz! That is the very worst there is. An' every time if I complain, Or say I've got a little pain, There's nothing else that they can think 'Cept castor oil for me to drink. I notice, though, when Pa is ill, That he gets fixed up with a pill, An' Pa don't handle Mother rough An' make her swallow nasty stuff; But when I've got a little ache, It's castor oil I've got to take.

I don't mind goin' up to bed Afore I get the chapter read; I don't mind being scolded, too, For lots of things I didn't do; But, Gee! I hate it when they say, "Come! Swallow this--an' right away!" Let poets sing about the joy It is to be a little boy, I'll tell the truth about my case: The poets here can have my place, An' I will take their life of-toil If they will take my castor oil.

A Father's Wish

What do I want my boy to be? Oft is the question asked of me, And oft I ask it of myself-- What corner, niche or post or shelf In the great hall of life would I Select for him to occupy? Statesman or writer, poet, sage Or toiler for a weekly wage, Artist or artisan? Oh, what Is to become his future lot? For him I do not dare to plan; I only hope he'll be a man.

I leave it free for him to choose The tools of life which he shall use, Brush, pen or chisel, lathe or wrench, The desk of commerce or the bench, And pray that when he makes his choice In each day's task he shall rejoice. I know somewhere there is a need For him to labor and succeed; Somewhere, if he be clean and true, Loyal and honest through and through, He shall be fit for any clan, And so I hope he'll be a man.

I would not build my hope or ask That he shall do some certain task, Or bend his will to suit my own; He shall select his post alone. Life needs a thousand kinds of men, Toilers and masters of the pen, Doctors, mechanics, sturdy hands To do the work which it commands, And wheresoe'er he's pleased to go, Honor and triumph he may know. Therefore I must do all I can To teach my boy to be a man.

No Better Land Than This

If I knew a better country in this glorious world today Where a man's work hours are shorter and he's drawing bigger pay, If the Briton or the Frenchman had an easier life than mine, I'd pack my goods this minute and I'd sail across the brine. But I notice when an alien wants a land of hope and cheer, And a future for his children, he comes out and settles here.

Here's the glorious land of Freedom! Here's the milk and honey goal For the peasant out of Russia, for the long-subjected Pole. It is here the sons of Italy and men of Austria turn For the comfort of their bodies and the wages they can earn. And with all that men complain of, and with all that goes amiss, There's no happier, better nation on the world's broad face than this.

So I'm thinking when I listen to the wails of discontent, And some foreign disbeliever spreads his evil sentiment, That the breed of hate and envy that is sowing sin and shame In this glorious land of Freedom should go back from whence it came. And I hold it is the duty, rich or poor, of every man Who enjoys this country's bounty to be all American.

A Boy and His Dog

A boy and his dog make a glorious pair: No better friendship is found anywhere, For they talk and they walk and they run and they play, And they have their deep secrets for many a day; And that boy has a comrade who thinks and who feels, Who walks down the road with a dog at his heels.

He may go where he will and his dog will be there, May revel in mud and his dog will not care; Faithful he'll stay for the slightest command And bark with delight at the touch of his hand; Oh, he owns a treasure which nobody steals, Who walks down the road with a dog at his heels.

No other can lure him away from his side; He's proof against riches and station and pride; Fine dress does not charm him, and flattery's breath Is lost on the dog, for he's faithful to death; He sees the great soul which the body conceals-- Oh, it's great to be young with a dog at your heels!

"Wait Till Your Pa Comes Home"

"Wait till your Pa comes home!" Oh, dear! What a dreadful threat for a boy to hear. Yet never a boy of three or four But has heard it a thousand times or more. "Wait till your Pa comes home, my lad, And see what you'll get for being bad,

"Wait till your Pa comes home, you scamp! You've soiled the walls with your fingers damp, You've tracked the floor with your muddy feet And fought with the boy across the street; You've torn your clothes and you look a sight! But wait till your Pa comes home to-night."

Now since I'm the Pa of that daily threat Which paints me as black as a thing of jet I rise in protest right here to say I won't be used in so fierce a way; No child of mine in the evening gloam Shall be afraid of my coming home.

I want him waiting for me at night With eyes that glisten with real delight; When it's right that punished my boy should be I don't want the job postponed for me; I want to come home to a round of joy And not to frighten a little boy.

"Wait till your Pa comes home!" Oh, dear, What a dreadful threat for a boy to hear. Yet that is ever his Mother's way Of saving herself from a bitter day; And well she knows in the evening gloam He won't be hurt when his Pa comes home.

Nothing to Laugh At

'Taint nothin' to laugh at as I can see! If you'd been stung by a bumble bee, An' your nose wuz swelled an' it smarted, too, You wouldn't want people to laugh at you. If you had a lump that wuz full of fire, Like you'd been touched by a red hot wire, An' your nose spread out like a load of hay, You wouldn't want strangers who come your way To ask you to let 'em see the place An' laugh at you right before your face.

What's funny about it, I'd like to know? It isn't a joke to be hurted so! An' how wuz I ever on earth to tell 'At the pretty flower which I stooped to smell In our backyard wuz the very one Which a bee wuz busily working on? An' jus' as I got my nose down there, He lifted his foot an' kicked for fair, An' he planted his stinger right into me, But it's nothin' to laugh at as I can see.

I let out a yell an' my Maw came out To see what the trouble wuz all about. She says from my shriek she wuz sure 'at I Had been struck by a motor car passin' by; But when she found what the matter wuz She laughed just like ever'body does An' she made me stand while she poked about To pull his turrible stinger out. An' my Pa laughed, too, when he looked at me, But it's nothin' to laugh at, as I can see.

My Maw put witch hazel on the spot To take down the swellin' but it has not. It seems to git bigger as time goes by An' I can't see good out o' this one eye; An' it hurts clean down to my very toes Whenever I've got to blow my nose. An' all I can say is when this gits well There ain't any flowers I'll stoop to smell. I'm through disturbin' a bumble bee, But it's nothin' to laugh at, as I can see.

No Room for Hate

We have room for the man with an honest dream, With his heart on fire and his eyes agleam; We have room for the man with a purpose true, Who comes to our shores to start life anew, But we haven't an inch of space for him Who comes to plot against life and limb.

We have room for the man who will learn our ways, Who will stand by our Flag in its troubled days; We have room for the man who will till the soil, Who will give his hands to a fair day's toil, But we haven't an inch of space to spare For the breeder of hatred and black despair.

We have room for the man who will neighbor here, Who will keep his hands and his conscience clear; We have room for the man who'll respect our laws And pledge himself to our country's cause, But we haven't an inch of land to give To the alien breed that will alien live.

Against the vicious we bar the gate! This is no breeding ground for hate. This is the land of the brave and free And such we pray it shall always be. We have room for men who will love our flag, But none for the friends of the scarlet rag.

The Boy and the Flag

I want my boy to love his home, His Mother, yes, and me: I want him, wheresoe'er he'll roam, With us in thought to be. I want him to love what is fine, Nor let his standards drag, But, Oh! I want that boy of mine To love his country's flag!

I want him when he older grows To love all things of earth; And Oh! I want him, when he knows, To choose the things of worth. I want him to the heights to climb Nor let ambition lag; But, Oh! I want him all the time To love his country's flag.

I want my boy to know the best, I want him to be great; I want him in Life's distant West, Prepared for any fate. I want him to be simple, too, Though clever, ne'er to brag, But, Oh! I want him, through and through, To love his country's flag.

I want my boy to be a man, And yet, in distant years, I pray that he'll have eyes that can Not quite keep back the tears When, coming from some foreign shore And alien scenes that fag, Borne on its native breeze, once more He sees his country's flag.

Too Big a Price

"They say my boy is bad," she said to me, A tired old woman, thin and very frail. "They caught him robbing railroad cars, an' he Must spend from five to seven years in jail. His Pa an' I had hoped so much for him. He was so pretty as a little boy--" Her eyes with tears grew very wet an' dim-- "Now nothing that we've got can give us joy!"