Chapter 6

Fame had never whispered then, Making slaves of eager men; Greed had never called me down To the gray walls of the town, Offering frankincense and myrrh If I'd be its prisoner; I was free to come and go Where the cherry blossoms blow, Free to wander where I would, Finding life supremely good.

But I turned, as all must do, From the happiness I knew To the land of care and strife, Seeking for a fuller life; Heard the lure of fame and sought That renown so dearly bought; Listened to the voice of greed Saying: "These the things you need," Now the gray town holds me fast, Prisoner to the very last.

Age has stamped me as its own; Youth to younger hearts has flown; Still the cherry blossoms blow In the land loused to know; Still the fragrant clover spills Perfume over dales and hills, But I'm not allowed to stray Where the young are free to play; All the years will grant to me Is the book of memory.

Pretending Not to See

Sometimes at the table, when He gets misbehavin', then Mother calls across to me: "Look at him, now! Don't you see What he's doin', sprawlin.' there! Make him sit up in his chair. Don't you see the messy way That he's eating?" An' I say: "No. He seems all right just now. What's he doing anyhow?"

Mother placed him there by me, An' she thinks I ought to see Every time he breaks the laws An' correct him, just because There will come a time some day When he mustn't act that way. But I can't be all along Scoldin' him for doin' wrong. So if something goes astray, I jus' look the other way.

Mother tells me now an' then I'm the easiest o' men, An' in dealin' with the lad I will never see the bad That he does, an' I suppose Mother's right for Mother knows; But I'd hate to feel that I'm Here to scold him all the time. Little faults might spoil the day, So I look the other way.

Look the other way an' try Not to let him catch my eye, Knowin' all the time that he Doesn't mean so bad to be; Knowin', too, that now an' then I am not the best o' men; Hopin', too, the times I fall That the Father of us all, Lovin', watchin' over me, Will pretend He doesn't see.

The Joys of Home

Curling smoke from a chimney low, And only a few more steps to go, Faces pressed at a window pane Watching for someone to come again, And I am the someone they wait to see-- These are the joys life gives to me.

What has my neighbor excelling this: A good wife's love and a baby's kiss? What if his chimneys tower higher? Peace is found at our humble fire. What if his silver and gold are more? Rest is ours when the day is o'er.

Strive for fortune and slave for fame, You find that joy always stays the same: Rich man and poor man dream and pray For a home where laughter shall ever stay, And the wheels go round and men spend their might For the few glad hours they may claim at night.

Home, where the kettle shall gaily sing, Is all that matters with serf or king; Gold and silver and laurelled fame Are only sweet when the hearth's aflame With a cheerful fire, and the loved ones there Are unafraid of the wolves of care.

So let me come home at night to rest With those who know I have done my best; Let the wife rejoice and my children smile, And I'll know by their love that I am worthwhile, For this is conquest and world success-- A home where abideth happiness.

We're Dreamers All

Oh, man must dream of gladness wherever his pathways lead, And a hint of something better is written in every creed; And nobody wakes at morning but hopes ere the day is o'er To have come to a richer pleasure than ever he's known before.

For man is a dreamer ever. He glimpses the hills afar And plans for the joys off yonder where all his to-morrows are; When trials and cares beset him, in the distance he still can see A hint of a future splendid and the glory that is to be.

There's never a man among us but cherishes dreams of rest; We toil for that something better than that which is now our best. Oh, what if the cup be bitter and what if we're racked with pain? There are wonderful days to follow when never we'll grieve again.

Back of the sound of the hammer, and back of the hissing steam, And back of the hand at the throttle is ever a lofty dream; All of us, great or humble, look over the present need To the dawn of the glad to-morrow which is promised in every creed.

What Is Success?

Success is being friendly when another needs a friend; It's in the cheery words you speak, and in the coins you lend; Success is not alone in skill and deeds of daring great; It's in the roses that you plant beside your garden gate.

Success is in the way you walk the paths of life each day; It's in the little things you do and in the things you say; Success is in the glad hello you give your fellow man; It's in the laughter of your home and all the joys you plan.

Success is not in getting rich or rising high to fame; It's not alone in winning goals which all men hope to claim; It's in the man you are each day, through happiness or care; It's in the cheery words you speak and in the smile you wear.

Success is being big of heart and clean and broad of mind; It's being faithful to your friends, and to the stranger, kind; It's in the children whom you love, and all they learn from you-- Success depends on character and everything you do.

The Three Me's

I'd like to steal a day and be All alone with little me, Little me that used to run Everywhere in search of fun; Little me of long ago Who was glad and didn't know Life is freighted down with care For the backs of men to bear; Little me who thought a smile Ought to linger all the while-- On his Mother's pretty face And a tear should never trace Lines of sorrow, hurt or care On those cheeks so wondrous fair.

I should like once more to be All alone with youthful me; Youthful me who saw the hills Where the sun its splendor spills And was certain that in time To the topmost height he'd climb; Youthful me, serene of soul, Who beheld a shining goal. And imagined he could gain Glory without grief or pain, Confident and quick with life, Madly eager for the strife, Knowing not that bitter care Waited for his coming there.

I should like to sit alone With the me now older grown, Like to lead the little me And the youth that used to be Once again along the ways Of our glorious yesterdays. We could chuckle soft and low At the things we didn't know, And could laugh to think how bold We had been in days of old, And how blind we were to care With its heartache and despair, We could smile away the tears And the pain of later years.

Brothers All

Under the toiler's grimy shirt, Under the sweat and the grease and dirt, Under the rough outside you view, Is a man who thinks and feels as you.

Go talk with him, Go walk with him, Sit down with him by a running stream, Away from the things that are hissing steam, Away from his bench, His hammer and wrench, And the grind of need And the sordid deed, And this you'll find As he bares his mind: In the things which count when this life is through He's as tender and big and as good as you.

Be fair with him, And share with him An hour of time in a restful place, Brother to brother and face to face, And he'll whisper low Of the long ago, Of a loved one dead And the tears he shed; And you'll come to see That in suffering he, With you, is hurt by the self-same rod And turns for help to the self-same God.

You hope as he, You dream of splendors, and so does he; His children must be as you'd have yours be; He shares your love For the Flag above, He laughs and sings For the self-same things; When he's understood He is mostly good, Thoughtful of others and kind and true, Brave, devoted--and much like you.

Under the toiler's grimy shirt, Under the sweat and the grease and dirt, Under the rough outside you view, Is a man who thinks and feels as you.

When We Understand the Plan

I reckon when the world we leave And cease to smile and cease to grieve, When each of us shall quit the strife And drop the working tools of life, Somewhere, somehow, we'll come to find Just what our Maker had in mind.

Perhaps through clearer eyes than these We'll read life's hidden mysteries, And learn the reason for our tears-- Why sometimes came unhappy years, And why our dearest joys were brief And bound so closely unto grief.

There is so much beyond our scope, As blindly on through life we grope, So much we cannot understand, However wisely we have planned, That all who walk this earth about Are constantly beset by doubt.

No one of us can truly say Why loved ones must be called away, Why hearts are hurt, or e'en explain Why some must suffer years of pain; Yet some day all of us shall know The reason why these things are so.

I reckon in the years to come, When these poor lips of clay are dumb, And these poor hands have ceased to toil, Somewhere upon a fairer soil God shall to all of us make clear The purpose of our trials here.

The Spoiler

With a twinkle in his eye He'd come gayly walkin' by An' he'd whistle to the children An' he'd beckon 'em to come, Then he'd chuckle low an' say, "Come along, I'm on my way, An' it's I that need your company To buy a little gum."

When his merry call they'd hear, All the children, far an' near, Would come flyin' from the gardens Like the chickens after wheat; When we'd shake our heads an' say: "No, you mustn't go to-day!" He'd beg to let him have 'em In a pack about his feet.

Oh, he spoiled 'em, one an' all; There was not a youngster small But was over-fed on candy An' was stuffed with lollypops, An' I think his greatest joy Was to get some girl or boy An' bring 'em to their parents All besmeared by chocolate drops.

Now the children's hearts are sore For he comes to them no more, And no more to them he whistles And no more for them he stops; But in Paradise, I think, With his chuckle and his wink, He is leading little angels To the heavenly candy shops.

A Vanished Joy

When I was but a little lad of six and seven and eight, One joy I knew that has been lost in customs up-to-date, Then Saturday was baking day and Mother used to make, The while I stood about and watched, the Sunday pies and cake; And I was there to have fulfilled a small boy's fondest wish, The glorious privilege of youth--to scrape the frosting dish!

On Saturdays I never left to wander far away-- I hovered near the kitchen door on Mother's baking day; The fragrant smell of cooking seemed to hold me in its grip, And naught cared I for other sports while there were sweets to sip; I little cared that all my chums had sought the brook to fish; I chose to wait that moment glad when I could scrape the dish.

Full many a slice of apple I have lifted from a pie Before the upper crust went on, escaping Mother's eye; Full many a time my fingers small in artfulness have strayed Into some sweet temptation rare which Mother's hands had made; But eager-eyed and watery-mouthed, I craved the greater boon, When Mother let me clean the dish and lick the frosting spoon.

The baking days of old are gone, our children cannot know The glorious joys that childhood owned and loved so long ago. New customs change the lives of all and in their heartless way They've robbed us of the glad event once known as baking day. The stores provide our every need, yet many a time I wish Our kids could know that bygone thrill and scrape the frosting dish.

"Carry On"

They spoke it bravely, grimly, in their darkest hours of doubt; They spoke it when their hope was low and when their strength gave out; We heard it from the dying in those troubled days now gone, And they breathed it as their slogan for the living: "Carry on!"

Now the days of strife are over, and the skies are fair again, But those two brave words of courage on our lips should still remain; In the trials which beset us and the cares we look upon, To our dead we should be faithful--we have still to "carry on!"

"Carry on!" through storm and danger, "carry on" through dark despair, "Carry on" through hurt and failure, "carry on" through grief and care; 'Twas the slogan they bequeathed us as they fell beside the way, And for them and for our children, let us "carry on!" to-day.

Life's Single Standard

There are a thousand ways to cheat and a thousand ways to sin; There are ways uncounted to lose the game, but there's only one way to win; And whether you live by the sweat of your brow or in luxury's garb you're dressed, You shall stand at last, when your race is run, to be judged by the single test.

Some men lie by the things they make; some lie in the deeds they do; And some play false for a woman's love, and some for a cheer or two; Some rise to fame by the force of skill, grow great by the might of power, Then wreck the temple they toiled to build, in a single, shameful hour.

The follies outnumber the virtues good; sin lures in a thousand ways; But slow is the growth of man's character and patience must mark his days; For only those victories shall count, when the work of life is done, Which bear the stamp of an honest man, and by courage and faith were won.

There are a thousand ways to fail, but only one way to win! Sham cannot cover the wrong you do nor wash out a single sin, And never shall victory come to you, whatever of skill you do, Save you've done your best in the work of life and unto your best were true.

Learn to Smile

The good Lord understood us when He taught us how to smile; He knew we couldn't stand it to be solemn all the while; He knew He'd have to shape us so that when our hearts were gay, We could let our neighbors know it in a quick and easy way.

So He touched the lips of Adam and He touched the lips of Eve, And He said: "Let these be solemn when your sorrows make you grieve, But when all is well in Eden and your life seems worth the while, Let your faces wear the glory and the sunshine of a smile.

"Teach the symbol to your children, pass it down through all the years. Though they know their share of sadness and shall weep their share of tears, Through the ages men and women shall prove their faith in Me By the smile upon their faces when their hearts are trouble-free."

The good Lord understood us when He sent us down to earth, He knew our need for laughter and for happy signs of mirth; He knew we couldn't stand it to be solemn all the while, But must share our joy with others--so He taught us how to smile.

The True Man

This is the sort of a man was he: True when it hurt him a lot to be; Tight in a corner an' knowin' a lie Would have helped him out, but he wouldn't buy His freedom there in so cheap a way-- He told the truth though he had to pay.

Honest! Not in the easy sense, When he needn't worry about expense-- We'll all play square when it doesn't count And the sum at stake's not a large amount-- But he was square when the times were bad, An' keepin' his word took all he had.

Honor is something we all profess, But most of us cheat--some more, some less-- An' the real test isn't the way we do When there isn't a pinch in either shoe; It's whether we're true to our best or not When the right thing's certain to hurt a lot.

That is the sort of a man was he: Straight when it hurt him a lot to be; Times when a lie would have paid him well, No matter the cost, the truth he'd tell; An' he'd rather go down to a drab defeat Than save himself if he had to cheat.

Cleaning the Furnace

Last night Pa said to Ma: "My dear, it's gettin' on to fall, It's time I did a little job I do not like at all. I wisht 'at I was rich enough to hire a man to do The dirty work around this house an' clean up when he's through, But since I'm not, I'm truly glad that I am strong an' stout, An' ain't ashamed to go myself an' clean the furnace out."

Then after supper Pa put on his overalls an' said He'd work down in the cellar till 'twas time to go to bed. He started in to rattle an' to bang an' poke an' stir, An' the dust began a-climbin' up through every register Till Ma said: "Goodness gracious; go an' shut those things up tight Or we'll all be suffocated an' the house will be a sight."

Then he carted out the ashes in a basket an' a pail, An' from cellar door to alley he just left an ashy trail. Then he pulled apart the chimney, an' 'twas full of something black, An' he skinned most all his knuckles when he tried to put it back. We could hear him talkin' awful, an' Ma looked at us an' said: "I think it would be better if you children went to bed."

When he came up from the cellar there were ashes in his hair, There were ashes in his eyebrows--but he didn't seem to care-- There were ashes in his mustache, there were ashes in his eyes, An' we never would have known him if he'd took us by surprise. "Well, I got it clean," he sputtered, and Ma said: "I guess that's true; Once the dirt was in the furnace, but now most of it's on you."

Trouble Brings Friends

It's seldom trouble comes alone. I've noticed this: When things go wrong An' trouble comes a-visitin', it always brings a friend along; Sometimes it's one you've known before, and then perhaps it's someone new Who stretches out a helping hand an' stops to see what he can do.

If never trials came to us, if grief an' sorrow passed us by, If every day the sun came out an' clouds were never in the sky, We'd still have neighbors, I suppose, each one pursuin' selfish ends, But only neighbors they would be--we'd never know them as our friends.

Out of the troubles I have had have come my richest friendships here, Kind hands have helped to bear my care, kind words have fallen on my ear; An' so I say when trouble comes I know before the storm shall end That I shall find my bit of care has also brought to me a friend.