Chapter 3

"What is it that you own?" I questioned then. "The house we live in," slowly she replied, "Two other houses worked an' slaved for, when The boy was but a youngster at my side, Some bonds we took the time he went to war; I've spent my strength against the want of age-- We've always had some end to struggle for. Now shame an' ruin smear the final page.

"His Pa has been a steady-goin' man, Worked day an' night an' overtime as well; He's lived an' dreamed an' sweated to his plan To own the house an' profit should we sell; He never drank nor played much cards at night, He's been a worker since our wedding day, He's lived his life to what he knows is right, An' why should son of his now go astray?

"I've rubbed my years away on scrubbing boards, Washed floors for women that owned less than we, An' while they played the ladies an' the lords, We smiled an' dreamed of happiness to be." "And all this time where was the boy?" said I. "Out somewhere playin'!"--Like a rifle shot The thought went home--"My God!" she gave a cry, "We paid too big a price for what we got."

Always Saying "Don't!"

Folks are queer as they can be, Always sayin' "don't" to me; Don't do this an' don't do that. Don't annoy or tease the cat, Don't throw stones, or climb a tree, Don't play in the road. Oh, Gee! Seems like when I want to play "Don't" is all that they can say.

If I start to have some fun, Someone hollers, "Don't you run!" If I want to go an' play Mother says: "Don't go away." Seems my life is filled clear through With the things I mustn't do. All the time I'm shouted at: "No, no, Sonny, don't do that!"

Don't shout so an' make a noise, Don't play with those naughty boys, Don't eat candy, don't eat pie, Don't you laugh and don't you cry, Don't stand up and don't you fall, Don't do anything at all. Seems to me both night an' day "Don't" is all that they can say.

When I'm older in my ways An' have little boys to raise, Bet I'll let 'em race an' run An' not always spoil their fun; I'll not tell 'em all along Everything they like is wrong, An' you bet your life I won't All the time be sayin' "don't."

Boy O' Mine

Boy o' mine, boy o' mine, this is my prayer for you, This is my dream and my thought and my care for you: Strong be the spirit which dwells in the breast of you, Never may folly or shame get the best of you; You shall be tempted in fancied security, But make no choice that is stained with impurity.

Boy o' mine, boy o' mine, time shall command of you Thought from the brain of you, work from the hand of you; Voices of pleasure shall whisper and call to you, Luring you far from the hard tasks that fall to you; Then as you're meeting life's bitterest test of men, God grant you strength to be true as the best of men.

Boy o' mine, boy o' mine, singing your way along, Cling to your laughter and cheerfully play along; Kind to your neighbor be, offer your hand to him, You shall grow great as your heart shall expand to him; But when for victory sweet you are fighting there, Know that your record of life you are writing there.

Boy o' mine, boy o' mine, this is my prayer for you; Never may shame pen one line of despair for you; Never may conquest or glory mean all to you; Cling to your honor whatever shall fall to you; Rather than victory, rather than fame to you, Choose to be true and let nothing bring shame to you.

To a Little Girl

Oh, little girl with eyes of brown And smiles that fairly light the town, I wonder if you really know Just why it is we love you so, And why--with all the little girls With shining eyes and tangled curls That throng and dance this big world through-- Our hearts have room for only you.

Since other little girls are gay And laugh and sing and romp in play, And all are beautiful to see, Why should you mean so much to me? And why should Mother, day and night, Make you her source of all delight, And always find in your caress Her greatest sum of happiness?

Oh, there's a reason good for this, You laughing little bright-eyed miss! In all this town, with all its girls With shining eyes and sun-kissed curls, If we should search it through and through We'd find not one so fair as you; And none, however fair of face, Within our hearts could take your place.

For, one glad day not long ago, God sent you down to us below, And said that you were ours to keep, To guard awake and watch asleep; And ever since the day you came No other child has seemed the same; No other smiles are quite so fair As those which happily you wear.

We seem to live from day to day To hear the things you have to say; And just because God gave us you, We prize the little things you do. Though God has filled this world with flowers, We like you best because you're ours-- In you our greatest joys we know, And that is why we love you so.

A Feller's Hat

It's funny 'bout a feller's hat-- He can't remember where it's at, Or where he took it off, or when, The time he's wantin' it again. He knows just where he leaves his shoes; His sweater he won't often lose; An' he can find his rubbers, but He can't tell where his hat is put.

A feller's hat gets anywhere. Sometimes he'll find it in a chair, Or on the sideboard, or maybe It's in the kitchen, just where he Gave it a toss beside the sink When he came in to get a drink, An' then forgot--but anyhow He never knows where it is now.

A feller's hat is never where He thinks it is when he goes there; It's never any use to look For it upon a closet hook, 'Cause it is always in some place It shouldn't be, to his disgrace, An' he will find it, like as not, Behind some radiator hot.

A feller's hat can get away From him most any time of day, So he can't ever find it when He wants it to go out again; It hides in corners dark an' grim An' seems to want to bother him; It disappears from sight somehow-- I wish I knew where mine is now.

The Good Little Boy

Once there was a boy who never Tore his clothes, or hardly ever, Never made his sister mad, Never whipped fer bein' bad, Never scolded by his Ma, Never frowned at by his Pa, Always fit fer folks to see, Always good as good could be.

This good little boy from Heaven, So I'm told, was only seven, Yet he never shed real tears When his mother scrubbed his ears, An' at times when he was dressed Fer a party, in his best, He was careful of his shirt Not to get it smeared with dirt.

Used to study late at night, Learnin' how to read an' write; When he played a baseball game, Right away he always came When his mother called him in. An' he never made a din But was quiet as a mouse When they'd comp'ny in the house.

Liked to wash his hands an' face, Liked to work around the place; Never, when he'd tired of play, Left his wagon in the way, Or his bat an' ball around-- Put 'em where they could be found; An' that good boy married Ma, An' to-day he is my Pa.

Green Apple Time

Green apple time! an', Oh, the joy Once more to be a healthy boy, Casting a longin' greedy eye At every tree he passes by! Riskin' the direst consequence To sneak inside a neighbor's fence An' shake from many a loaded limb The fruit that seems so near to him Gosh! but once more I'd like to be The boy I was in eighty-three.

Here I am sittin' with my pipe, Waitin' for apples to get ripe; Waitin' until the friendly sun Has bronzed 'em all an' says they're done; Not darin' any more to climb An' pick a few afore their time. No legs to run, no teeth to chew The way that healthy youngsters do; Jus' old enough to sit an' wait An' pick my apple from a plate.

Plate apples ain't to be compared With those you've ventured for an' dared. It's winnin' 'em from branches high, Or nippin' 'em when no one's by, Or findin' 'em the time you feel You really need another meal, Or comin' unexpectedly Upon a farmer's loaded tree An' grabbin' all that you can eat, That goes to make an apple sweet.

Green apple time! Go to it, boy, An' cram yourself right full o' joy; Watch for the farmer's dog an' run; There'll come a time it can't be done. There'll come a day you can't digest The fruit you've stuffed into your vest, Nor climb, but you'll sit down like me An' watch 'em ripening on the tree, An' jus' like me you'll have to wait To pick your apples from a plate.

She Mothered Five

She mothered five! Night after night she watched a little bed, Night after night she cooled a fevered head, Day after day she guarded little feet, Taught little minds the dangers of the street, Taught little lips to utter simple prayers, Whispered of strength that some day would be theirs, And trained them all to use it as they should. She gave her babies to the nation's good.

She mothered five! She gave her beauty--from her cheeks let fade Their rose-blush beauty--to her mother trade. She saw the wrinkles furrowing her brow, Yet smiling said: "My boy grows stronger now." When pleasures called she turned away and said: "I dare not leave my babies to be fed By strangers' hands; besides they are too small; I must be near to hear them when they call."

She mothered five! Night after night they sat about her knee And heard her tell of what some day would be. From her they learned that in the world outside Are cruelty and vice and selfishness and pride; From her they learned the wrongs they ought to shun, What things to love, what work must still be done. She led them through the labyrinth of youth And brought five men and women up to truth.

She mothered five! Her name may be unknown save to the few; Of her the outside world but little knew; But somewhere five are treading virtue's ways, Serving the world and brightening its days; Somewhere are five, who, tempted, stand upright, Who cling to honor, keep her memory bright; Somewhere this mother toils and is alive No more as one, but in the breasts of five.

Little Girls Are Best

Little girls are mighty nice, Take 'em any way they come; They are always worth their price; Life without 'em would be glum; Run earth's lists of treasures through, Pile 'em high until they fall, Gold an' costly jewels, too-- Little girls are best of all.

Nothing equals 'em on earth! I'm an old man an' I know Any little girl is worth More than all the gold below; Eyes o' blue or brown or gray, Raven hair or golden curls, There's no joy on earth to-day Quite so fine as little girls.

Pudgy nose or freckled face, Fairy-like or plain to see, God has surely blessed the place Where a little girl may be; They're the jewels of His crown Dropped to earth from heaven above, Like wee angel souls sent down To remind us of His love.

God has made some lovely things-- Roses red an' skies o' blue, Trees an' babbling silver springs, Gardens glistening with dew-- But take every gift to man, Big an' little, great an' small, Judge it on its merits, an' Little girls are best of all!

The World and Bud

If we were all alike, what a dreadful world 'twould be! No one would know which one was you or which of us was me. We'd never have a "Skinny" or a "Freckles" or a "Fat," An' there wouldn't be a sissy boy to wear a velvet hat; An' we'd all of us be pitchers when we played a baseball match, For we'd never have a feller who'd have nerve enough to catch.

If we were all alike an' looked an' thought the same, I wonder how'd they call us, 'cause there'd only be one name. An' there'd only be one flavor for our ice cream sodas, too, An' one color for a necktie an' I 'spose that would be blue; An' maybe we'd have mothers who were very fond of curls, An' they'd make us fellers wear our hair like lovely little girls.

Sometimes I think it's funny when I hear some feller say That he isn't fond of chocolate, when I eat it every day. Or some other fellow doesn't like the books I like to read; But I'm glad that we are different, yes, siree! I am indeed. If everybody looked alike an' talked alike, Oh, Gee! We'd never know which one was you or which of us was me.

Aw Gee Whiz!

Queerest little chap he is, Always saying: "Aw Gee Whiz!" Needing something from the store That you've got to send him for And you call him from his play, Then it is you hear him say: "Aw Gee Whiz!"

Seems that most expressive phrase Is a part of childhood days; Call him in at supper time, Hands and face all smeared with grime, Send him up to wash, and he Answers you disgustedly: "Aw Gee Whiz!"

When it's time to go to bed And he'd rather play instead, As you call him from the street, He comes in with dragging feet, Knowing that he has to go, Then it is he mutters low: "Aw Gee Whiz!"

Makes no difference what you ask Of him as a little task; He has yet to learn that life Crosses many a joy with strife, So when duty mars his play, Always we can hear him say: "Aw Gee Whiz!"

Practicing Time

Always whenever I want to play I've got to practice an hour a day, Get through breakfast an' make my bed, And Mother says: "Marjorie, run ahead! There's a time for work and a time for fun, So go and get your practicing done." And Bud, he chuckles and says to me: "Yes, do your practicing, Marjorie." A brother's an awful tease, you know, And he just says that 'cause I hate it so.

They leave me alone in the parlor there To play the scales or "The Maiden's Prayer," And if I stop, Mother's bound to call, "Marjorie dear, you're not playing at all! Don't waste your time, but keep right on, Or you'll have to stay when the hour is gone." Or maybe the maid looks in at me And says: "You're not playing, as I can see. Just hustle along--I've got work to do And I can't dust the room until you get through."

Then when I've run over the scales and things Like "The Fairies' Dance," or "The Mountain Springs," And my fingers ache and my head is sore, I find I must sit there a half hour more. An hour is terribly long, I say, When you've got to practice and want to play. So slowly at times has the big hand dropped That I was sure that the clock had stopped, But Mother called down to me: "Don't forget-- A full hour, please. It's not over yet."

Oh, when I get big and have children, too, There's one thing that I will never do-- I won't have brothers to tease the girls And make them mad when they pull their curls And laugh at them when they've got to stay And practice their music an hour a day; I won't have a maid like the one we've got, That likes to boss you around a lot; And I won't have a clock that can go so slow When it's practice time, 'cause I hate it so.

The Christmas Gift for Mother

In the Christmas times of the long ago, There was one event we used to know That was better than any other; It wasn't the toys that we hoped to get, But the talks we had--and I hear them yet-- Of the gift we'd buy for Mother.

If ever love fashioned a Christmas gift, Or saved its money and practiced thrift, 'Twas done in those days, my brother-- Those golden times of Long Gone By, Of our happiest years, when you and I Talked over the gift for Mother.

We hadn't gone forth on our different ways Nor coined our lives into yesterdays In the fires that smelt and smother, And we whispered and planned in our youthful glee Of that marvelous "something" which was to be The gift of our hearts to Mother.

It had to be all that our purse could give, Something she'd treasure while she could live, And better than any other. We gave it the best of our love and thought, And, Oh, the joy when at last we'd bought That marvelous gift for Mother!

Now I think as we go on our different ways, Of the joy of those vanished yesterdays. How good it would be, my brother, If this Christmas-time we could only know That same sweet thrill of the Long Ago When we shared in the gift for Mother.

Bedtime

It's bedtime, and we lock the door, Put out the lights--the day is o'er; All that can come of good or ill, The record of this day to fill, Is written down; the worries cease, And old and young may rest in peace.

We knew not when we started out What dangers hedged us all about, What little pleasures we should gain, What should be ours to bear of pain. But now the fires are burning low, And this day's history we know.

No harm has come. The laughter here Has been unbroken by a tear; We've met no hurt too great to bear, We have not had to bow to care; The children all are safe in bed, There's nothing now for us to dread.

When bedtime comes and we can say That we have safely lived the day. How sweet the calm that settles down And shuts away the noisy town! There is no danger now to fear Until to-morrow shall appear.

When the long bedtime comes, and I In sleep eternal come to lie-- When life has nothing more in store, And silently I close the door, God grant my weary soul may claim Security from hurt and shame.

The Willing Horse

I'd rather be the willing horse that people ride to death Than be the proud and haughty steed that children dare not touch; I'd rather haul a merry pack and finish out of breath Than never leave the barn to toil because I'm worth too much. So boast your noble pedigrees And talk of manners, if you please-- The weary horse enjoys his ease When all his work is done; The willing horse, day in and out, Can hear the merry children shout And every time they are about He shares in all their fun.

I want no guards beside my door to pick and choose my friends for me; I would not be shut off from men as is the fancy steed; I do not care when I go by that no one turns his eyes to see The dashing manner of my gait which marks my noble breed; I am content to trudge the road And willingly to draw my load-- Sometimes to know the spur and goad When I begin to lag; I'd rather feel the collar jerk And tug at me, the while I work, Than all the tasks of life to shirk As does the stylish nag.

So let me be the willing horse that now and then is overtasked, Let me be one the children love and freely dare to ride-- I'd rather be the gentle steed of which too much is sometimes asked Than be the one that never knows the youngsters at his side. So drive me wheresoe'er you will, On level road or up the hill, Pile on my back the burdens still And run me out of breath-- In love and friendship, day by day, And kindly words I'll take my pay; A willing horse; that is the way I choose to meet my death.

Where Children Play

On every street there's a certain place Where the children gather to romp and race; There's a certain house where they meet in throngs To play their games and to sing their songs, And they trample the lawn with their busy feet And they scatter their playthings about the street, But though some folks order them off, I say, Let the house be mine where the children play.

Armies gather about the door And fill the air with their battle roar; Cowboys swinging their lariat loops Dash round the house with the wildest whoops, And old folks have to look out when they Are holding an Indian tribe at bay, For danger may find them on flying feet, Who pass by the house where the children meet.

There are lawns too lovely to bear the weight Of a troop of boys when they roller skate; There are porches fine that must never know The stamping of footsteps that come and go, But on every street there's a favorite place Where the children gather to romp and race, And I'm glad in my heart that it's mine to say Ours is the house where the children play.

How Do You Buy Your Money?

How do you buy your money? For money is bought and sold, And each man barters himself on earth for his silver and shining gold, And by the bargain he makes with men, the sum of his life is told.

Some buy their coins in a manly way, some buy them with honest toil; Some pay for their currency here on earth by tilling a patch of soil; Some buy it with copper and iron and steel, and some with barrels of oil.

The good man buys it from day to day by giving the best he can; He coins his strength for his children's needs and lives to a simple plan, And he keeps some time for the home he makes and some for his fellowman.

But some men buy it with women's tears, and some with a blasted name; And some will barter the joy of life for the fortune they hope to claim; And some are so mad for the clink of gold that they buy it with deeds of shame.

How do you buy your money? For money demands its price, And some men think when they purchase coin that they mustn't be over-nice-- But beware of the man who would sell you gold at a shameful sacrifice!

Mother's Day

Let every day be Mother's Day! Make roses grow along her way And beauty everywhere. Oh, never let her eyes be wet With tears of sorrow or regret, And never cease to care! Come, grown up children, and rejoice That you can hear your mother's voice!

A day for her! For you she gave Long years of love and service brave; For you her youth was spent. There was no weight of hurt or care Too heavy for her strength to bear; She followed where you went; Her courage and her love sublime You could depend on all the time.

No day or night she set apart On which to open wide her heart And welcome you within; There was no hour you would not be First in her thought and memory, Though you were black as sin! Though skies were gray or skies were blue Not once has she forgotten you.

Let every day be Mother's Day! With love and roses strew her way, And smiles of joy and pride! Come, grown up children, to the knee Where long ago you used to be And never turn aside; Oh, never let her eyes grow wet With tears, because her babes forget.

When We Play the Fool

Last night I stood in a tawdry place And watched the ways of the human race. I looked at a party of shrieking girls Piled on a table that whirls and whirls, And saw them thrown in a tangled heap, Sprawling and squirming and several deep. And unto the wife who was standing by, "These are all angels to be," said I.

I followed the ways of the merry throng And heard the laughter and mirth and song. Into a barrel which turned and swayed Men and women a journey made, And tumbling together they seemed to be Like so many porpoises out at sea-- Men and women who'd worked all day, Eagerly seeking a chance to play.

"What do you make of it all?" she said. I answered: "The dead are a long time dead, And care is bitter and duty stern, And each must weep when it comes his turn. And all grow weary and long for play, So here is laughter to end the day. Foolish? Oh, yes, it is that," said I, "But better the laugh than the dreary sigh.

"Now look at us here, for we're like them, too, And many the foolish things we do. We often grow silly and seek a smile In a thousand ways that are not worth while; Yet after the mirth and the jest are through, We shall all be judged by the deeds we do, And God shall forget on the Judgment Day The fools we were in our hours of play."

What Makes an Artist

We got to talking art one day, discussing in a general way How some can match with brush and paint the glory of a tree, And some in stone can catch the things of which the dreamy poet sings, While others seem to have no way to tell the joys they see.

Old Blake had sat in silence there and let each one of us declare Our notions of what's known as art, until he'd heard us through; And then said he: "It seems to me that any man, whoe'er he be, Becomes an artist by the good he daily tries to do.

"He need not write the books men read to be an artist. No, indeed! He need not work with paint and brush to show his love of art; Who does a kindly deed to-day and helps another on his way, Has painted beauty on a face and played the poet's part.

"Though some of us cannot express our inmost thoughts of loveliness, We prove we love the beautiful by how we act and live; The poet singing of a tree no greater poet is than he Who finds it in his heart some care unto a tree to give.

"Though he who works in marble stone the name of artist here may own, No less an artist is the man who guards his children well; 'Tis art to love the fine and true; by what we are and what we do How much we love life's nobler things to all the world we tell."

She Powders Her Nose