Chapter 4
A woman is queer, there's no doubt about that. She hates to be thin and she hates to be fat; One minute it's laughter, the next it's a cry-- You can't understand her, however you try; But there's one thing about her which everyone knows-- A woman's not dressed till she powders her nose.
You never can tell what a woman will say; She's a law to herself every hour of the day. It keeps a man guessing to know what to do, And mostly he's wrong when his guessing is through; But this you can bet on, wherever she goes She'll find some occasion to powder her nose.
I've studied the sex for a number of years; I've watched her in laughter and seen her in tears; On her ways and her whims I have pondered a lot, To find what will please her and just what will not; But all that I've learned from the start to the close Is that sooner or later she'll powder her nose.
At church or a ball game, a dance or a show, There's one thing about her I know that I know-- At weddings or funerals, dinners of taste, You can bet that her hand will dive into her waist, And every few minutes she'll strike up a pose, And the whole world must wait till she powders her nose.
The Chip on Your Shoulder
You'll learn when you're older that chip on your shoulder Which you dare other boys to upset, And stand up and fight for and struggle and smite for, Has caused you much shame and regret. When Time, life's adviser, has made you much wiser, You won't be so quick with the blow; You won't be so willing to fight for a shilling, And change a good friend to a foe.
You won't be a sticker for trifles, and bicker And quarrel for nothing at all; You'll grow to be kinder, more thoughtful and blinder To faults which are petty and small. You won't take the trouble your two fists to double When someone your pride may offend; When with rage now you bristle you'll smile or you'll whistle, And keep the good will of a friend.
You'll learn when you're older that chip on your shoulder Which proudly you battle to guard, Has frequently shamed you and often defamed you And left you a record that's marred! When you've grown calm and steady, you won't be so ready To fight for a difference that's small, For you'll know, when you're older that chip on your shoulder Is only a chip after all.
All for the Best
Things mostly happen for the best. However hard it seems to-day, When some fond plan has gone astray Or what you've wished for most is lost An' you sit countin' up the cost With eyes half-blind by tears o' grief While doubt is chokin' out belief, You'll find when all is understood That what seemed bad was really good.
Life can't be counted in a day. The present rain that will not stop Next autumn means a bumper crop. We wonder why some things must be-- Care's purpose we can seldom see-- An' yet long afterwards we turn To view the past, an' then we learn That what once filled our minds with doubt Was good for us as it worked out.
I've never known an hour of care But that I've later come to see That it has brought some joy to me. Even the sorrows I have borne, Leavin' me lonely an' forlorn An' hurt an' bruised an' sick at heart, In life's great plan have had a part. An' though I could not understand Why I should bow to Death's command, As time went on I came to know That it was really better so.
Things mostly happen for the best. So narrow is our vision here That we are blinded by a tear An' stunned by every hurt an' blow Which comes to-day to strike us low. An' yet some day we turn an' find That what seemed cruel once was kind. Most things, I hold, are wisely planned If we could only understand.
The Kick Under the Table
After a man has been married awhile, And his wife has grown used to his manner and style, When she knows from the twinkle that lights up his eye The thoughts he is thinking, the wherefore and why, And just what he'll say, and just what he'll do, And is sure that he'll make a bad break ere he's through, She has one little trick that she'll work when she's able-- She takes a sly kick at him under the table.
He may fancy the story he's telling is true, Or he's doing the thing which is proper to do; He may fancy he's holding his own with the rest, The life of the party and right at his best, When quickly he learns to his utter dismay, That he mustn't say what he's just started to say. He is stopped at the place where he hoped to begin, By his wife, who has taken a kick at his shin.
If he picks the wrong fork for the salad, he knows That fact by the feel of his wife's slippered toes. If he's started a bit of untellable news, On the calf of his leg there is planted a bruise. Oh, I wonder sometimes what would happen to me If the wife were not seated just where she could be On guard every minute to watch every trick, And keep me in line all the time with her kick.
Leader of the Gang
Seems only just a year ago that he was toddling round the place In pretty little colored suits and with a pink and shining face. I used to hold him in my arms to watch when our canary sang, And now tonight he tells me that he's leader of his gang.
It seems but yesterday, I vow, that I with fear was almost dumb, Living those dreadful hours of care waiting the time for him to come; And I can still recall the thrill of that first cry of his which rang Within our walls. And now that babe tells me he's leader of his gang.
Gone from our lives are all the joys which yesterday we used to own; The baby that we thought we had, out of the little home has flown, And in his place another stands, whose garments in disorder hang, A lad who now with pride proclaims that he's the leader of his gang.
And yet somehow I do not grieve for what it seems we may have lost; To have so strong a boy as this, most cheerfully I pay the cost. I find myself a sense of joy to comfort every little pang, And pray that they shall find in him a worthy leader of the gang.
Ma and the Ouija Board
I don't know what it's all about, but Ma says that she wants to know If spirits in the other world can really talk to us below. An' Pa says, "Gosh! there's folks enough on earth to talk to, I should think, Without you pesterin' the folks whose souls have gone across the brink." But Ma, she wants to find out things an' study on her own accord, An' so a month or two ago she went an' bought a ouija board.
It's just a shiny piece of wood, with letters printed here an' there, An' has a little table which you put your fingers on with care, An' then you sit an' whisper low some question that you want to know. Then by an' by the spirit comes an' makes the little table go, An' Ma, she starts to giggle then an' Pa just grumbles out, "Oh, Lord! I wish you hadn't bought this thing. We didn't need a ouija board."
"You're movin' it!" says Ma to Pa. "I'm not!" says Pa, "I know it's you; You're makin' it spell things to us that you know very well aren't true." "That isn't so," says Ma to him, "but I am certain from the way The ouija moves that you're the one who's tellin' it just what to say." "It's just 'lectricity," says Pa; "like batteries all men are stored, But anyhow I don't believe we ought to have a ouija board."
One night Ma got it out, an' said, "Now, Pa, I want you to be fair, Just keep right still an' let your hands rest lightly on the table there. Oh, Ouija, tell me, tell me true, are we to buy another car, An' will we get it very soon?" she asked. "Oh, tell us from afar." "Don't buy a car," the letters spelled, "the price this year you can't afford." Then Ma got mad, an' since that time she's never used the ouija board.
The Call of the Woods
I must get out to the woods again, to the whispering trees and the birds awing, Away from the haunts of pale-faced men, to the spaces wide where strength is king; I must get out where the skies are blue and the air is clean and the rest is sweet, Out where there's never a task to do or a goal to reach or a foe to meet.
I must get out on the trails once more that wind through shadowy haunts and cool, Away from the presence of wall and door, and see myself in a crystal pool; I must get out with the silent things, where neither laughter nor hate is heard, Where malice never the humblest stings and no one is hurt by a spoken word.
Oh, I've heard the call of the tall white pine, and heard the call of the running brook; I'm tired of the tasks which each day are mine; I'm weary of reading a printed book. I want to get out of the din and strife, the clang and clamor of turning wheel, And walk for a day where life is life, and the joys are true and the pictures real.
Committee Meetings
For this and that and various things It seems that men must get together, To purchase cups or diamond rings Or to discuss the price of leather. From nine to ten, or two to three, Or any hour that's fast and fleeting, There is a constant call for me To go to some committee meeting.
The church has serious work to do, The lodge and club has need of workers, They ask for just an hour or two-- Surely I will not join the shirkers? Though I have duties of my own I should not drop before completing, There comes the call by telephone To go to some committee meeting.
No longer may I eat my lunch In quietude and contemplation; I must foregather with the bunch To raise a fund to save the nation. And I must talk of plans and schemes The while a scanty bite I'm eating, Until I vow to-day it seems My life is one committee meeting.
When over me the night shall fall, And my poor soul goes upwards winging Unto that heavenly realm, where all Is bright with joy and gay with singing, I hope to hear St. Peter say-- And I shall thank him for the greeting: "Come in and rest from day to day; Here there is no committee meeting!"
Pa and the Monthly Bills
When Ma gets out the monthly bills and sets them all in front of Dad, She makes us children run away because she knows he may get mad; An' then she smiles a bit and says: "I hope you will not fuss and fret-- There's nothing here except the things I absolutely had to get!" An' Pa he looks 'em over first. "The things you had to have!" says he; "I s'pose that we'd have died without that twenty dollar longeree."
Then he starts in to write the checks for laundry an' for light an' gas, An' never says a word 'bout them--because they're small he lets 'em pass. But when he starts to grunt an' groan, an' stops the while his pipe he fills, We know that he is gettin' down to where Ma's hid the bigger bills. "Just what we had to have," says he, "an' I'm supposed to pay the tolls; Nine dollars an' a half for--say, what the deuce are camisoles?
"If you should break a leg," says Pa, "an couldn't get down town to shop, I'll bet the dry goods men would see their business take an awful drop, An' if they missed you for a week, they'd have to fire a dozen clerks! Say, couldn't we have got along without this bunch of Billie Burkes?" But Ma just sits an' grins at him, an' never has a word to say, Because she says Pa likes to fuss about the bills he has to pay.
Bob White
Out near the links where I go to play My favorite game from day to day, There's a friend of mine that I've never met Walked with or broken bread with, yet I've talked to him oft and he's talked to me Whenever I've been where he's chanced to be; He's a cheery old chap who keeps out of sight, A gay little fellow whose name is Bob White.
Bob White! Bob White! I can hear him call As I follow the trail to my little ball-- Bob White! Bob White! with a note of cheer That was just designed for a mortal ear. Then I drift far off from the world of men And I send an answer right back to him then; An' we whistle away to each other there, Glad of the life which is ours to share.
Bob White! Bob White! May you live to be The head of a numerous family! May you boldly call to your friends out here, With never an enemy's gun to fear. I'm a better man as I pass along, For your cheery call and your bit of song. May your food be plenty and skies be bright To the end of your days, good friend Bob White!
When Ma Wants Something New
Last night Ma said to Pa: "My dear, The Williamsons are coming here To visit for a week or two, An' I must have a talk with you. We need some things which we must get-- You promised me a dinner set, An' I should like it while they're here." An' Pa looked up an' said: "My dear, A dinner set? Well, I guess not. What's happened to the one we've got?"
"We need a parlor rug," says Ma. "We've got a parlor rug," says Pa. "We ought to have another chair." "You're sittin' in a good one there." "The parlor curtains are a fright." "When these are washed they look all right." "The old stuff's pitiful to see." "It still looks mighty good to me." "The sofa's worn beyond repair." "It doesn't look so bad, I swear."
"Gee Whiz, you make me tired," says Ma. "Why, what's the matter now?" says Pa. "You come an' go an' never see How old our stuff has grown to be; It still looks just the same to you As what it did when it was new, An' every time you think it strange That I should like to have a change." "I'm gettin' old," says Pa. "Maybe You'd like a younger man than me."
"If this old rug was worn an' thin, At night you'd still come walkin' in An' throw your hat upon a chair An' never see a single tear; So long as any chair could stand An' bear your weight you'd think it grand. If home depended all on you, It never would get something new." "All right," says Pa, "go buy the stuff! But, say, am I still good enough?"
Sittin' on the Porch
Sittin' on the porch at night when all the tasks are done, Just restin' there an' talkin', with my easy slippers on, An' my shirt band thrown wide open an' my feet upon the rail, Oh, it's then I'm at my richest, with a wealth that cannot fail; For the scent of early roses seems to flood the evening air, An' a throne of downright gladness is my wicker rocking chair.
The dog asleep beside me, an' the children rompin' 'round With their shrieks of merry laughter, Oh, there is no gladder sound To the ears o' weary mortals, spite of all the scoffers say, Or a grander bit of music than the children at their play! An' I tell myself times over, when I'm sittin' there at night, That the world in which I'm livin' is a place o' real delight.
Then the moon begins its climbin' an' the stars shine overhead, An' the mother calls the children an' she takes 'em up to bed, An' I smoke my pipe in silence an' I think o' many things, An' balance up my riches with the lonesomeness o' kings, An' I come to this conclusion, an' I'll wager that I'm right-- That I'm happier than they are, sittin' on my porch at night.
With Dog and Gun
Out in the woods with a dog an' gun Is my idea of a real day's fun. 'Tain't the birds that I'm out to kill That furnish me with the finest thrill, 'Cause I never worry or fret a lot, Or curse my luck if I miss a shot. There's many a time, an' I don't know why, That I shoot too low or I aim too high, An' all I can see is the distant whirr Of a bird that's gittin' back home to her-- Yep, gittin' back home at the end o' day, An' I'm just as glad that he got away.
There's a whole lot more in the woods o' fall Than the birds you bag--if you think at all. There's colors o' gold an' red an' brown As never were known in the busy town; There's room to breathe in the purest air An' something worth looking at everywhere; There's the dog who's leadin' you on an' on To a patch o' cover where birds have gone, An' standin' there, without move or change, Till you give the sign that you've got the range. That's thrill enough for my blood, I say, So why should I care if they get away?
Fact is, there are times that I'd ruther miss Than to bring 'em down, 'cause I feel like this: There's a heap more joy in a living thing Than a breast crushed in or a broken wing, An' I can't feel right, an' I never will, When I look at a bird that I've dared to kill. Oh, I'm jus' plumb happy to tramp about An' follow my dog as he hunts 'em out, Jus' watchin' him point in his silent way Where the Bob Whites are an' the partridge stay; For the joy o' the great outdoors I've had, So why should I care if my aim is bad?
Old Mister Laughter
Old Mister Laughter Comes a-grinnin' down the way, Singin': "Never mind your troubles, For they'll surely pass away." Singin': "Now the sun is shinin' An' there's roses everywhere; To-morrow will be soon enough To fret about your care."
Old Mister Laughter Comes a-grinnin' at my door, Singin': "Don't go after money When you've got enough and more." Singin': "Laugh with me this mornin' An' be happy while you may. What's the use of riches If they never let you play?"
Old Mister Laughter Comes a-grinnin' all the time, Singin' happy songs o' gladness In a good old-fashioned rhyme. Singin': "Keep the smiles a-goin', Till they write your epitaph, And don't let fame or fortune Ever steal away your laugh."
A Family Row
I freely confess there are good friends of mine, With whom we are often invited to dine, Who get on my nerves so that I cannot eat Or stay with my usual ease in my seat; For I know that if something should chance to occur Which he may not like or which doesn't please her, That we'll have to try to be pleasant somehow While they stage a fine little family row.
Now a family row is a private affair, And guests, I am certain, should never be there; I have freely maintained that a man and his wife Cannot always agree on their journey through life, But they ought not to bicker and wrangle and shout And show off their rage when their friends are about; It takes all the joy from a party, I vow, When some couple starts up a family row.
It's a difficult job to stay cool and polite When your host and your hostess are staging a fight: It's hard to talk sweet to a dame with a frown Or smile at a man that you want to knock down. You sit like a dummy and look far away, But you just can't help hearing the harsh things they say. It ruins the dinner, I'm telling you now, When your host and your hostess get mixed in a row.
The Lucky Man
Luck had a favor to bestow And wondered where to let it go.
"No lazy man on earth," said she, "Shall get this happy gift from me.
"I will not pass it to the man Who will not do the best he can.
"I will not make this splendid gift To one who has not practiced thrift.
"It shall not benefit deceit, Nor help the man who's played the cheat.
"He that has failed to fight with pluck Shall never know the Goddess Luck.
"I'll look around a bit to see What man has earned some help from me."
She found a man whose hands were soiled Because from day to day he'd toiled.
He'd dreamed by night and worked by day To make life's contest go his way.
He'd kept his post and daily slaved, And something of his wage he'd saved.
He'd clutched at every circumstance Which might have been his golden chance.
The goddess smiled and then, kerslap! She dropped her favor in his lap.
Lonely
They're all away And the house is still, And the dust lies thick On the window sill, And the stairway creaks In a solemn tone This taunting phrase: "You are all alone."
They've gone away And the rooms are bare; I miss his cap From a parlor chair. And I miss the toys In the lonely hall, But most of any I miss his call.
I miss the shouts And the laughter gay Which greeted me At the close of day, And there isn't a thing In the house we own But sobbingly says: "You are all alone."
It's only a house That is mine to know, An empty house That is cold with woe; Like a prison grim With its bars of black, And it won't be home Till they all come back.
The Cookie Jar
You can rig up a house with all manner of things, The prayer rugs of sultans and princes and kings; You can hang on its walls the old tapestries rare Which some dead Egyptian once treasured with care; But though costly and gorgeous its furnishings are, It must have, to be homelike, an old cookie jar.
There are just a few things that a home must possess, Besides all your money and all your success-- A few good old books which some loved one has read, Some trinkets of those whose sweet spirits have fled, And then in the pantry, not shoved back too far For the hungry to get to, that old cookie jar.
Let the house be a mansion, I care not at all! Let the finest of pictures be hung on each wall, Let the carpets be made of the richest velour, And the chairs only those which great wealth can procure, I'd still want to keep for the joy of my flock That homey, old-fashioned, well-filled cookie crock.
Like the love of the Mother it shines through our years; It has soothed all our hurts and has dried away tears; It has paid us for toiling; in sorrow or joy, It has always shown kindness to each girl and boy; And I'm sorry for people, whoever they are, Who live in a house where there's no cookie jar.
Little Wrangles
Lord, we've had our little wrangles, an' we've had our little bouts; There's many a time, I reckon, that we have been on the outs; My tongue's a trifle hasty an' my temper's apt to fly, An' Mother, let me tell you, has a sting in her reply, But I couldn't live without her, an' it's plain as plain can be That in fair or sunny weather Mother needs a man like me.
I've banged the door an' muttered angry words beneath my breath, For at times when she was scoldin' Mother's plagued me most to death, But we've always laughed it over, when we'd both cooled down a bit, An' we never had a difference but a smile would settle it. An' if such a thing could happen, we could share life's joys an' tears An' live right on together for another thousand years.
Some men give up too easy in the game o' married life; They haven't got the courage to be worthy of a wife; An' I've seen a lot o' women that have made their lives a mess, 'Cause they couldn't bear the burdens that are, mixed with happiness. So long as folks are human they'll have many faults that jar, An' the way to live with people is to take them as they are.
We've been forty years together, good an' bad, an' rain an' shine; I've forgotten Mother's faults now an' she never mentions mine. In the days when sorrow struck us an' we shared a common woe We just leaned upon each other, an' our weakness didn't show. An' I learned how much I need her an' how tender she can be An' through it, maybe, Mother saw the better side o' me.
The Wide Outdoors
The rich may pay for orchids rare, but, Oh the apple tree Flings out its blossoms to the world for every eye to see, And all who sigh for loveliness may walk beneath the sky And claim a richer beauty than man's gold can ever buy.
The blooming cherry trees are free for all to look upon; The dogwood buds for all of us, and not some favorite one; The wide outdoors is no man's own; the stranger on the street Can cast his eyes on many a rose and claim its fragrance sweet.
Small gardens are shut in by walls, but none can wall the sky, And none can hide the friendly trees from all who travel by; And none can hold the apple boughs and claim them for his own, For all the beauties of the earth belong to God alone.
So let me walk the world just now and wander far and near; Earth's loveliness is mine to see, its music mine to hear; There's not a single apple bough that spills its blooms about But I can claim the joy of it, and none can shut me out.
"Where's Mamma?"
Comes in flying from the street; "Where's Mamma?" Friend or stranger thus he'll greet: "Where's Mamma?" Doesn't want to say hello, Home from school or play he'll go Straight to what he wants to know: "Where's Mamma?"
Many times a day he'll shout, "Where's Mamma?" Seems afraid that she's gone out; "Where's Mamma?" Is his first thought at the door-- She's the one he's looking for, And he questions o'er and o'er, "Where's Mamma?"