Pretend that all the years have passed Without one cold and wintry blast; That you are coming still to woo Your sweetheart as you used to do; Forget that you have walked along The paths of life where right and wrong And joy and grief in battle are, And play the heart without a scar.

Be what you were when youth was fine And send to her a valentine; Forget the burdens and the woe That have been given you to know And to the wife, so fond and true, The pledges of the past renew 'Twill cure her life of every ill To find that you're her sweetheart still.



Bud

Who is it lives to the full every minute, Gets all the joy and the fun that is in it? Tough as they make 'em, and ready to race, Fit for a battle and fit for a chase, Heedless of buttons on blouses and pants, Laughing at danger and taking a chance, Gladdest, it seems, when he wallows in mud, Who is the rascal? I'll tell you, it's Bud!

Who is it wakes with a shout of delight, And comes to our room with a smile that is bright? Who is it springs into bed with a leap And thinks it is queer that his dad wants to sleep? Who answers his growling with laughter and tries His patience by lifting the lids of his eyes? Who jumps in the air and then lands with a thud On his poor daddy's stomach? I'll tell you, it's Bud!

Who is it thinks life is but laughter and play And doesn't know care is a part of the day? Who is reckless of stockings and heedless of shoes? Who laughs at a tumble and grins at a bruise? Who climbs over fences and clambers up trees, And scrapes all the skin off his shins and his knees? Who sometimes comes home all bespattered with blood That was drawn by a fall? It's that rascal called Bud.

Yet, who is it makes all our toiling worth while? Who can cure every ache that we know, by his smile? Who is prince to his mother and king to his dad And makes us forget that we ever were sad? Who is center of all that we dream of and plan, Our baby to-day but to-morrow our man? It's that tough little, rough little tyke in the mud, That tousled-haired, fun-loving rascal called Bud!



The Front Seat

When I was but a little lad I always liked to ride, No matter what the rig we had, right by the driver's side. The front seat was the honor place in bob-sleigh, coach or hack, And I maneuvered to avoid the cushions in the back. We children used to scramble then to share the driver's seat, And long the pout I wore when I was not allowed that treat. Though times have changed and I am old I still confess I race With other grown-ups now and then to get my favorite place.

The auto with its cushions fine and big and easy springs Has altered in our daily lives innumerable things, But hearts of men are still the same as what they used to be, When surreys were the stylish rigs, or so they seem to me, For every grown-up girl to-day and every grown-up boy Still hungers for the seat in front and scrambles for its joy, And riding by the driver's side still holds the charm it did In those glad, youthful days gone by when I was just a kid.

I hurry, as I used to do, to claim that favorite place, And when a tonneau seat is mine I wear a solemn face. I try to hide the pout I feel, and do my best to smile, But envy of the man in front gnaws at me all the while. I want to be where I can see the road that lies ahead, To watch the trees go flying by and see the country spread Before me as we spin along, for there I miss the fear That seems to grip the soul of me while riding in the rear.

And I am not alone in this. To-day I drive a car And three glad youngsters madly strive to share the "seat with Pa." And older folks that ride with us, I very plainly see, Maneuver in their artful ways to sit in front with me; Though all the cushions in the world were piled up in the rear, The child in all of us still longs to watch the engineer. And happier hearts we seem to own when we're allowed to ride, No matter what the car may be, close by the driver's side.



There Are No Gods

There are no gods that bring to youth The rich rewards that stalwarts claim; The god of fortune is in truth A vision and an empty name. The toiler who through doubt and care Unto his goal and victory plods, With no one need his glory share: He is himself his favoring gods.

There are no gods that will bestow Earth's joys and blessings on a man. Each one must choose the path he'll go, Then win from it what joy he can. And he that battles with the odds Shall know success, but he who waits The favors of the mystic gods, Shall never come to glory's gates.

No man is greater than his will; No gods to him will lend a hand! Upon his courage and his skill The record of his life must stand. What honors shall befall to him, What he shall claim of fame or pelf, Depend not on the favoring whim Of fortune's god, but on himself.



The Auto

An auto is a helpful thing; I love the way the motor hums, I love each cushion and each spring, The way it goes, the way it comes; It saves me many a dreary mile, It brings me quickly to the smile Of those at home, and every day It adds unto my time for play.

It keeps me with my friends in touch; No journey now appears too much To make with meetings at the end: It gives me time to be a friend. It laughs at distance, and has power To lengthen every fleeting hour. It bears me into country new That otherwise I'd never view.

It's swift and sturdy and it strives To fill with happiness our lives; When for the doctor we've a need It brings him to our door with speed. It saves us hours of anxious care And heavy heartache and despair. It has its faults, but still I sing: The auto is a helpful thing.



The Handy Man

The handy man about the house Is old and bent and gray; Each morning in the yard he toils, Where all the children play; Some new task every day he finds, Some task he loves to do, The handy man about the house, Whose work is never through.

The children stand to see him toil, And watch him mend a chair; They bring their broken toys to him He keeps them in repair. No idle moment Grandpa spends, But finds some work to do, And hums a snatch of some old song, That in his youth he knew.

He builds with wood most wondrous things: A table for the den, A music rack to please the girls, A gun case for the men. And 'midst his paints and tools he smiles, And seems as young and gay As any of the little ones Who round him run in play.

I stopped to speak with him awhile; "Oh, tell me, Grandpa, pray," I said, "why do you work so hard Throughout the livelong day? Your hair is gray, your back is bent, With weight of years oppressed; This is the evening of your life— Why don't you sit and rest?"

"Ah, no," the old man answered me, "Although I'm old and gray, I like to work out here where I Can watch the children play. The old have tasks that they must do; The greatest of my joys Is working on this shaded porch, And mending children's toys."

And as I wandered on, I thought, Oh, shall I lonely be When time has powdered white my hair, And left his mark on me? Will little children round me play, Shall I have work to do? Or shall I be, when age is mine, Lonely and useless too?



The New Days

The old days, the old days, how oft the poets sing, The days of hope at dewy morn, the days of early spring, The days when every mead was fair, and every heart was true, And every maiden wore a smile, and every sky was blue The days when dreams were golden and every night brought rest, The old, old days of youth and love, the days they say were best But I—I sing the new days, the days that lie before, The days of hope and fancy, the days that I adore.

The new days, the new days, the selfsame days they are; The selfsame sunshine heralds them, the selfsame evening star Shines out to light them on their way unto the Bygone Land, And with the selfsame arch of blue the world to-day is spanned. The new days, the new days, when friends are just as true, And maidens smile upon us all, the way they used to do, Dreams we know are golden dreams, hope springs in every breast; It cheers us in the dewy morn and soothes us when we rest.

The new days, the new days, of them I want to sing, The new days with the fancies and the golden dreams they bring; The old days had their pleasures, but likewise have the new The gardens with their roses and the meadows bright with dew; We love to-day the selfsame way they loved in days of old; The world is bathed in beauty and it isn't growing cold; There's joy for us a-plenty, there are tasks for us to do, And life is worth the living, for the friends we know are true.



The Call

Joy stands on the hilltops, Beckoning to me, Urging me to journey Up where I can see Blue skies ever smiling, Cool green fields below, Hear the songs of children Still untouched by woe.

Joy stands on the hilltops, Urging me to stay, Spite of toil and trouble, To life's rugged way, Holding out a promise Of a life serene When the steeps I've mastered Lying now between.

Joy stands on the hilltops, Smiling down at me, Urging me to clamber Up where I can see Over toil and trouble Far beyond despair, And I answer smiling: Some day I'll be there.



Songs of Rejoicing

Songs of rejoicin', Of love and of cheer, Are the songs that I'm yearnin' for Year after year. The songs about children Who laugh in their glee Are the songs worth the singin', The bright songs for me.

Songs of rejoicin', Of kisses and love, Of faith in the Father, Who sends from above The sunbeams to scatter The gloom and the fear; These songs worth the singin', The songs of good cheer.

Songs of rejoicin', Oh, sing them again, The brave songs of courage Appealing to men. Of hope in the future Of heaven the goal; The songs of rejoicin' That strengthen the soul.



Another Mouth to Feed

We've got another mouth to feed, From out our little store; To satisfy another's need Is now my daily chore. A growing family is ours, Beyond the slightest doubt; It takes all my financial powers To keep them looking stout. With us another makes his bow To breakfast, dine and sup; Our little circle's larger now, For Buddy's got a pup.

If I am frayed about the heels And both my elbows shine And if my overcoat reveals The poverty that's mine, 'Tis not because I squander gold In folly's reckless way; The cost of foodstuffs, be it told, Takes all my weekly pay. 'Tis putting food on empty plates That eats my wages up; And now another mouth awaits, For Buddy's got a pup.

And yet I gladly stand the strain, And count the task worth while, Nor will I dismally complain While Buddy wears a smile. What's one mouth more at any board Though costly be the fare? The poorest of us can afford His frugal meal to share. And so bring on the extra plate, He will not need a cup, And gladly will I pay the freight Now Buddy's got a pup.



The Little Church

The little church of Long Ago, where as a boy I sat With mother in the family pew and fumbled with my hat— How I would like to see it now the way I saw it then, The straight-backed pews, the pulpit high, the women and the men Dressed stiffly in their Sunday clothes and solemnly devout, Who closed their eyes when prayers were said and never looked about— That little church of Long Ago, it wasn't grand to see, But even as a little boy it meant a lot to me.

The choir loft where father sang comes back to me again; I hear his tenor voice once more the way I heard it when The deacons used to pass the plate, and once again I see The people fumbling for their coins, as glad as they could be To drop their quarters on the plate, and I'm a boy once more With my two pennies in my fist that mother gave before We left the house, and once again I'm reaching out to try To drop them on the plate before the deacon passes by.

It seems to me I'm sitting in that high-backed pew, the while The minister is preaching in that good old-fashioned style; And though I couldn't understand it all somehow I know The Bible was the text book in that church of Long Ago; He didn't preach on politics, but used the word of God, And even now I seem to see the people gravely nod, As though agreeing thoroughly with all he had to say, And then I see them thanking him before they go away.

The little church of Long Ago was not a structure huge, It had no hired singers or no other subterfuge To get the people to attend, 'twas just a simple place Where every Sunday we were told about God's saving grace; No men of wealth were gathered there to help it with a gift; The only worldly thing it had—a mortgage hard to lift. And somehow, dreaming here to-day, I wish that I could know The joy of once more sitting in that church of Long Ago.



Sue's Got a Baby

Sue's got a baby now, an' she Is like her mother used to be; Her face seems prettier, an' her ways More settled-like. In these few days She's changed completely, an' her smile Has taken on the mother-style. Her voice is sweeter, an' her words Are clear as is the song of birds. She still is Sue, but not the same— She's different since the baby came.

There is a calm upon her face That marks the change that's taken place; It seems as though her eyes now see The wonder things that are to be, An' that her gentle hands now own A gentleness before unknown. Her laughter has a clearer ring Than all the bubbling of a spring, An' in her cheeks love's tender flame Glows brighter since the baby came.

I look at her an' I can see Her mother as she used to be. How sweet she was, an' yet how much She sweetened by the magic touch That made her mother! In her face It seemed the angels left a trace Of Heavenly beauty to remain Where once had been the lines of pain An' with the baby in her arms Enriched her with a thousand charms.

Sue's got a baby now an' she Is prettier than she used to be. A wondrous change has taken place, A softer beauty marks her face An' in the warmth of her caress There seems the touch of holiness, An' all the charms her mother knew Have blossomed once again in Sue. I sit an' watch her an' I claim My lost joys since her baby came.



The Lure That Failed

I know a wonderful land, I said, Where the skies are always blue, Where on chocolate drops are the children fed, And cocoanut cookies, too; Where puppy dogs romp at the children's feet, And the liveliest kittens play, And little tin soldiers guard the street To frighten the bears away.

This land is reached by a wonderful ship That sails on a golden tide; But never a grown-up makes the trip— It is only a children's ride. And never a cross-patch journeys there, And never a pouting face, For it is the Land of Smiling, where A frown is a big disgrace.

Oh, you board the ship when the sun goes down, And over a gentle sea You slip away from the noisy town To the land of the chocolate tree. And there, till the sun comes over the hill, You frolic and romp and play, And of candy and cake you eat your fill, With no one to tell you "Nay!"

So come! It is time for the ship to go To this wonderful land so fair, And gently the summer breezes blow To carry you safely there. So come! Set sail on this golden sea, To the land that is free from dread! "I know what you mean," she said to me, "An' I don't wanna go to bed."



The Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving

It may be I am getting old and like too much to dwell Upon the days of bygone years, the days I loved so well; But thinking of them now I wish somehow that I could know A simple old Thanksgiving Day, like those of long ago, When all the family gathered round a table richly spread, With little Jamie at the foot and grandpa at the head, The youngest of us all to greet the oldest with a smile, With mother running in and out and laughing all the while.

It may be I'm old-fashioned, but it seems to me to-day We're too much bent on having fun to take the time to pray; Each little family grows up with fashions of its own; It lives within a world itself and wants to be alone. It has its special pleasures, its circle, too, of friends; There are no get-together days; each one his journey wends, Pursuing what he likes the best in his particular way, Letting the others do the same upon Thanksgiving Day.

I like the olden way the best, when relatives were glad To meet the way they used to do when I was but a lad; The old home was a rendezvous for all our kith and kin, And whether living far or near they all came trooping in With shouts of "Hello, daddy!" as they fairly stormed the place And made a rush for mother, who would stop to wipe her face Upon her gingham apron before she kissed them all, Hugging them proudly to her breast, the grownups and the small.

Then laughter rang throughout the home, and, Oh, the jokes they told; From Boston, Frank brought new ones, but father sprang the old; All afternoon we chatted, telling what we hoped to do, The struggles we were making and the hardships we'd gone through; We gathered round the fireside. How fast the hours would fly— It seemed before we'd settled down 'twas time to say good-bye. Those were the glad Thanksgivings, the old-time families knew When relatives could still be friends and every heart was true.



The Old-Fashioned Pair

'Tis a little old house with a squeak in the stairs, And a porch that seems made for just two easy chairs; In the yard is a group of geraniums red, And a glorious old-fashioned peony bed. Petunias and pansies and larkspurs are there Proclaiming their love for the old-fashioned pair.

Oh, it's hard now to picture the peace of the place! Never lovelier smile lit a fair woman's face Than the smile of the little old lady who sits On the porch through the bright days of summer and knits. And a courtlier manner no prince ever had Than the little old man that she speaks of as "dad."

In that little old house there is nothing of hate; There are old-fashioned things by an old-fashioned grate; On the walls there are pictures of fine looking men And beautiful ladies to look at, and then Time has placed on the mantel to comfort them there The pictures of grandchildren, radiantly fair.

Every part of the house seems to whisper of joy, Save the trinkets that speak of a lost little boy. Yet Time has long since soothed the hurt and the pain, And his glorious memories only remain: The laughter of children the old walls have known, And the joy of it stays, though the babies have flown.

I am fond of that house and that old-fashioned pair And the glorious calm that is hovering there. The riches of life are not silver and gold But fine sons and daughters when we are grown old, And I pray when the years shall have silvered our hair We shall know the delights of that old-fashioned pair.



At Pelletier's

We've been out to Pelletier's Brushing off the stain of years, Quitting all the moods of men And been boys and girls again. We have romped through orchards blazing, Petted ponies gently grazing, Hidden in the hayloft's spaces, And the queerest sort of places That are lost (and it's a pity!) To the youngsters in the city. And the hired men have let us Drive their teams, and stopped to get us Apples from the trees, and lingered While a cow's cool nose we fingered; And they told us all about her And her grandpa who was stouter.

We've been out to Pelletier's Watching horses raise their ears, And their joyous whinnies hearing When the man with oats was nearing. We've been climbing trees an' fences Never minding consequences. And we helped the man to curry The fat ponies' sides so furry. And we saw a squirrel taking Walnuts to the nest he's making, Storing them for winter, when he Can't get out to hunt for any. And we watched the turkeys, growing Big and fat and never knowing That the reason they were living Is to die for our Thanksgiving.

We've been out to Pelletier's, Brushing off the stain of years. We were kids set free from shamming And the city's awful cramming, And the clamor and the bustle And the fearful rush and hustle— Out of doors with room to race in And broad acres soft to chase in. We just stretched our souls and let them Drop the petty cares that fret them, Left our narrow thoughts behind us, Loosed the selfish traits that bind us And were wholesomer and plainer Simpler, kinder folks and saner, And at night said: "It's a pity Mortals ever built a city."



At Christmas

A man is at his finest towards the finish of the year; He is almost what he should be when the Christmas season's here; Then he's thinking more of others than be's thought the months before, And the laughter of his children is a joy worth toiling for. He is less a selfish creature than at any other time; When the Christmas spirit rules him he comes close to the sublime.

When it's Christmas man is bigger and is better in his part; He is keener for the service that is prompted by the heart. All the petty thoughts and narrow seem to vanish for awhile And the true reward he's seeking is the glory of a smile. Then for others he is toiling and somehow it seems to me That at Christmas he is almost what God wanted him to be.

If I had to paint a picture of a man I think I'd wait Till he'd fought his selfish battles and had put aside his hate. I'd not catch him at his labors when his thoughts are all of pelf, On the long days and the dreary when he's striving for himself. I'd not take him when he's sneering, when he's scornful or depressed, But I'd look for him at Christmas when he's shining at his best.

Man is ever in a struggle and he's oft misunderstood; There are days the worst that's in him is the master of the good, But at Christmas kindness rules him and he puts himself aside And his petty hates are vanquished and his heart is opened wide. Oh, I don't know how to say it, but somehow it seems to me That at Christmas man is almost what God sent him here to be.



The Little Army

Little women, little men, Childhood never comes again. Live it gayly while you may; Give your baby souls to play; March to sound of stick and pan, In your paper hats, and tramp just as bravely as you can To your pleasant little camp. Wooden sword and wooden gun Make a battle splendid fun. Fine the victories you win Dimpled cheek and dimpled chin.

Little women, little men, Hearts are light when years are ten; Eyes are bright and cheeks are red When life's cares lie all ahead. Drums make merry music when They are leading children out; Trumpet calls are cheerful then, Glorious is the battle shout. Little soldiers, single file, Uniformed in grin and smile, Conquer every foe they meet Up and down the gentle street.

Little women, little men, Would that youth could come again! Would that I might fall in line As a little boy of nine, But with broomstick for a gun, And with paper hat that I Bravely wore back there for fun, Never more may I defy Foes that deep in ambush kneel— Now my warfare's grim and real. I that once was brave and bold, Now am battered, bruised and old.

Little women, little men, Planning to attack my den, Little do you know the joy That you give a worn-out boy As he hears your gentle feet Pitter-patting in the hall; Gladly does he wait to meet Conquest by a troop so small. Dimpled cheek and dimpled chin, You have but to smile to win. Come and take him where he stays Dreaming of his by-gone days.



Who Is Your Boss?

"I work for someone else," he said; "I have no chance to get ahead. At night I leave the job behind; At morn I face the same old grind. And everything I do by day Just brings to me the same old pay. While I am here I cannot see The semblance of a chance for me."

I asked another how he viewed The occupation he pursued. "It's dull and dreary toil," said he, "And brings but small reward to me. My boss gets all the profits fine That I believe are rightly mine. My life's monotonously grim Because I'm forced to work for him."

I stopped a third young man to ask His attitude towards his task. A cheerful smile lit up his face; "I shan't be always in this place," He said, "because some distant day A better job will come my way." "Your boss?" I asked, and answered he: "I'm going to make him notice me.

"He pays me wages and in turn That money I am here to earn, But I don't work for him alone; Allegiance to myself I own. I do not do my best because It gets me favors or applause— I work for him, but I can see That actually I work for me.

"It looks like business good to me The best clerk on the staff to be. If customers approve my style And like my manner and my smile I help the firm to get the pelf, But what is more I help myself. From one big thought I'm never free: That every day I work for me."

Oh, youth, thought I, you're bound to climb The ladder of success in time. Too many self-impose the cross Of daily working for a boss, Forgetting that in failing him It is their own stars that they dim. And when real service they refuse They are the ones who really lose.



The Truth About Envy

I like to see the flowers grow, To see the pansies in a row; I think a well-kept garden's fine, And wish that such a one were mine; But one can't have a stock of flowers Unless he digs and digs for hours.

My ground is always bleak and bare; The roses do not flourish there. And where I once sowed poppy seeds Is now a tangled mass of weeds.' I'm fond of flowers, but admit, For digging I don't care a bit.

I envy men whose yards are gay, But never work as hard as they; I also envy men who own More wealth than I have ever known. I'm like a lot of men who yearn For joys that they refuse to earn.

You cannot have the joys of work And take the comfort of a shirk. I find the man I envy most Is he who's longest at his post. I could have gold and roses, too, If I would work like those who do.



Living

If through the years we're not to do Much finer deeds than we have done; If we must merely wander through Time's garden, idling in the sun; If there is nothing big ahead, Why do we fear to join the dead?

Unless to-morrow means that we Shall do some needed service here; That tasks are waiting you and me That will be lost, save we appear; Then why this dreadful thought of sorrow That we may never see to-morrow?

If all our finest deeds are done, And all our splendor's in the past; If there's no battle to be won, What matter if to-day's our last? Is life so sweet that we would live Though nothing back to life we give?

It is not greatness to have clung To life through eighty fruitless years; The man who dies in action, young, Deserves our praises and our cheers, Who ventures all for one great deed And gives his life to serve life's need.



On Being Broke

Don't mind being broke at all, When I can say that what I had Was spent for toys for kiddies small And that the spending made 'em glad. I don't regret the money gone, If happiness it left behind. An empty purse I'll look upon Contented, if its record's kind. There's no disgrace in being broke, Unless it's due to flying high; Though poverty is not a joke, The only thing that counts is "why?"

The dollars come to me and go; To-day I've eight or ten to spend; To-morrow I'll be sailing low, And have to lean upon a friend. But if that little bunch of mine Is richer by some toy or frill, I'll face the world and never whine Because I lack a dollar bill. I'm satisfied, if I can see One smile that hadn't bloomed before. The only thing that counts with me Is what I've spent my money for.

I might regret my sorry plight, If selfishness brought it about; If for the fun I had last night, Some joy they'd have to go without. But if I've swapped my bit of gold, For laughter and a happier pack Of youngsters in my little fold I'll never wish those dollars back. If I have traded coin for things They needed and have left them glad, Then being broke no sorrow brings— I've done my best with what I had.



The Broken Drum

There is sorrow in the household; There's a grief too hard to bear; There's a little cheek that's tear-stained There's a sobbing baby there. And try how we will to comfort, Still the tiny teardrops come; For, to solve a vexing problem, Curly Locks has wrecked his drum.

It had puzzled him and worried, How the drum created sound; For he couldn't understand it It was not enough to pound With his tiny hands and drumsticks, And at last the day has come, When another hope is shattered; Now in ruins lies his drum.

With his metal bank he broke it, Tore the tightened skin aside, Gazed on vacant space bewildered, Then he broke right down and cried. For the broken bubble shocked him And the baby tears must come; Now a joy has gone forever: Curly Locks has wrecked his drum.

While his mother tries to soothe him, I am sitting here alone; In the life that lies behind me; Many shocks like that I've known. And the boy who's upstairs weeping, In the years that are to come Will learn that many pleasures Are as empty as his drum.



Mother's Excuses

Mother for me made excuses When I was a little tad; Found some reason for my conduct When it had been very bad. Blamed it on a recent illness Or my nervousness and told Father to be easy with me Every time he had to scold.

And I knew, as well as any Roguish, healthy lad of ten, Mother really wasn't telling Truthful things to father then. I knew I deserved the whipping, Knew that I'd been very bad, Knew that mother knew it also When she intervened with dad.

I knew that my recent illness Hadn't anything to do With the mischief I'd been up to, And I knew that mother knew. But remembering my fever And my nervous temperament, Father put away the shingle And postponed the sad event.

Now his mother, when I threaten Punishment for this and that, Calls to mind the dreary night hours When beside his bed we sat. Comes and tells me that he's nervous, That's the reason he was bad, And the boy and doting mother Put it over on the dad.

Some day when he's grown as I am, With a boy on mischief bent, He will hear the timeworn story Of the nervous temperament. And remembering the shingle That aside I always threw, All I hope is that he'll let them Put it over on him, too.



As It Is

I might wish the world were better, I might sit around and sigh For a water that is wetter And a bluer sort of sky. There are times I think the weather Could be much improved upon, But when taken altogether It's a good old world we're on. I might tell how I would make it, But when I have had my say It is still my job to take it As it is, from day to day.

I might wish that men were kinder, And less eager after gold; I might wish that they were blinder To the faults they now behold. And I'd try to make them gentle, And more tolerant in strife And a bit more sentimental O'er the finer things of life. But I am not here to make them, Or to work in human clay; It is just my work to take them As they are from day to day.

Here's a world that suffers sorrow, Here are bitterness and pain, And the joy we plan to-morrow May be ruined by the rain. Here are hate and greed and badness, Here are love and friendship, too, But the most of it is gladness When at last we've run it through. Could we only understand it As we shall some distant day We should see that He who planned it Knew our needs along the way.



A Boy's Tribute

Prettiest girl I've ever seen Is Ma. Lovelier than any queen Is Ma. Girls with curls go walking by, Dainty, graceful, bold an' shy, But the one that takes my eye Is Ma.

Every girl made into one Is Ma. Sweetest girl to look upon Is Ma. Seen 'em short and seen 'em tall, Seen 'em big and seen 'em small, But the finest one of all Is Ma.

Best of all the girls on earth Is Ma. One that all the rest is worth Is Ma. Some have beauty, some have grace, Some look nice in silk and lace, But the one that takes first place Is Ma.

Sweetest singer in the land is Ma. She that has the softest hand Is Ma. Tenderest, gentlest nurse is she, Full of fun as she can be, An' the only girl for me Is Ma.

Bet if there's an angel here It's Ma.' if God has a sweetheart dear, It's Ma. Take the girls that artists draw, An' all the girls I ever saw, The only one without a flaw Is Ma.



Up to the Ceiling

Up to the ceiling And down to the floor, Hear him now squealing And calling for more. Laughing and shouting, "Away up!" he cries. Who could be doubting The love in his eyes. Heigho! my baby! And heigho! my son! Up to the ceiling Is wonderful fun.

Bigger than daddy And bigger than mother; Only a laddie, But bigger than brother. Laughing and crowing And squirming and wriggling, Cheeks fairly glowing, Now cooing and giggling! Down to the cellar, Then quick as a dart Up to the ceiling Brings joy to the heart.

Gone is the hurry, The anguish and sting, The heartache and worry That business cares bring; Gone is the hustle, The clamor for gold, The rush and the bustle The day's affairs hold. Peace comes to the battered Old heart of his dad, When "up to the ceiling" He plays with his lad.



Thanksgiving

Gettin' together to smile an' rejoice, An' eatin' an' laughin' with folks of your choice; An' kissin' the girls an' declarin' that they Are growin more beautiful day after day; Chattin' an' braggin' a bit with the men, Buildin' the old family circle again; Livin' the wholesome an' old-fashioned cheer, Just for awhile at the end of the year.

Greetings fly fast as we crowd through the door And under the old roof we gather once more Just as we did when the youngsters were small; Mother's a little bit grayer, that's all. Father's a little bit older, but still Ready to romp an' to laugh with a will. Here we are back at the table again Tellin' our stories as women an men.

Bowed are our heads for a moment in prayer; Oh, but we're grateful an' glad to be there. Home from the east land an' home from the west, Home with the folks that are dearest an' best. Out of the sham of the cities afar We've come for a time to be just what we are. Here we can talk of ourselves an' be frank, Forgettin' position an' station an' rank.

Give me the end of the year an' its fun When most of the plannin' an' toilin' is done; Bring all the wanderers home to the nest, Let me sit down with the ones I love best, Hear the old voices still ringin' with song, See the old faces unblemished by wrong, See the old table with all of its chairs An I'll put soul in my Thanksgivin' prayers.



The Boy Soldier

Each evening on my lap there climbs A little boy of three, And with his dimpled, chubby fists He pounds me shamefully. He gives my beard a vicious tug, He bravely pulls my nose; And then he tussles with my hair And then explores my clothes.

He throws my pencils on the floor My watch is his delight; He never seems to think that I Have any private right. And though he breaks my good cigars, With all his cunning art, He works a greater ruin, far, Deep down within my heart.

This roguish little tyke who sits Each night upon my knee, And hammers at his poor old dad, Is bound to conquer me. He little knows that long ago, He forced the gates apart, And marched triumphantly into The city of my heart.

Some day perhaps, in years to come, When he is older grown, He, too, will be assailed as I, By youngsters of his own. And when at last a little lad Gives battle on his knee, I know that he'll be captured, too, Just as he captured me.



My Land

My land is where the kind folks are, And where the friends are true, Where comrades brave will travel far Some kindly deed to do. My land is where the smiles are bright And where the speech is sweet, And where men cling to what is right Regardless of defeat.

My land is where the starry flag Gleams brightly in the sun; The land of rugged mountain crag, The land where rivers run, Where cheeks are tanned and hearts are bold And women fair to see, And all is not a strife for gold— That land is home to me.

My land is where the children play, And where the roses bloom, And where to break the peaceful day No flaming cannons boom. My land's the land of honest toil, Of laughter, dance and song, Where harvests crown the fertile soil And thoughtful are the strong.

My land's the land of many creeds And tolerance for all It is the land of 'splendid deeds Where men are seldom small. And though the world should bid me roam, Its distant scenes to see, My land would keep my heart at home And there I'd always be.



Daddies

I would rather be the daddy Of a romping, roguish crew, Of a bright-eyed chubby laddie And a little girl or two, Than the monarch of a nation In his high and lofty seat Taking empty adoration From the subjects at his feet.

I would rather own their kisses As at night to me they run, Than to be the king who misses All the simpler forms of fun. When his dreary day is ending He is dismally alone, But when my sun is descending There are joys for me to own.

He may ride to horns and drumming; I must walk a quiet street, But when once they see me coming Then on joyous, flying feet They come racing to me madly And I catch them with a swing And I say it proudly, gladly, That I'm happier than a king.

You may talk of lofty places, You may boast of pomp and power, Men may turn their eager faces To the glory of an hour, But give me the humble station With its joys that long survive, For the daddies of the nation Are the happiest men alive.



Loafing

Under the shade of trees, Flat on my back at ease, Lulled by the hum of bees, There's where I rest; Breathing the scented air, Lazily loafing there, Never a thought of care, Peace in my breast.

There where the waters run, Laughing along in fun, I go when work is done, There's where I stray; Couch of a downy green, Restful and sweet and clean, Set in a fairy scene, Wondrously gay.

Worn out with toil and strife, Sick of the din of life, With pain and sorrow rife, There's where I go; Soothing and sweet I find, Comforts that ease the mind, Leaving dull care behind, Rest there I know.

Flat on my back I lie, Watching the ships go by, Under the fleecy sky, Day dreaming there; From grief I find surcease, From worry gain release, Resting in perfect peace, Free from all care.



When Father Played Baseball

The smell of arnica is strong, And mother's time is spent In rubbing father's arms and back With burning liniment. The house is like a druggist's shop; Strong odors fill the hall, And day and night we hear him groan, Since father played baseball.

He's forty past, but he declared That he was young as ever; And in his youth, he said, he was A baseball player clever. So when the business men arranged A game, they came to call On dad and asked him if he thought That he could play baseball.

"I haven't played in fifteen years," Said father, "but I know That I can stop the grounders hot, And I can make the throw. I used to play a corking game; The curves, I know them all; And you can count on me, you bet, To join your game of ball."

On Saturday the game was played, And all of us were there; Dad borrowed an old uniform, That Casey used to wear. He paid three dollars for a glove, Wore spikes to save a fall He had the make-up on all right, When father played baseball.

At second base they stationed him; A liner came his way; Dad tried to stop it with his knee, And missed a double play. He threw into the bleachers twice, He let a pop fly fall; Oh, we were all ashamed of him, When father played baseball.

He tried to run, but tripped and fell, He tried to take a throw; It put three fingers out of joint, And father let it go. He stopped a grounder with his face; Was spiked, nor was that all; It looked to us like suicide, When father played baseball.

At last he limped away, and now He suffers in disgrace; His arms are bathed in liniment; Court plaster hides his face. He says his back is breaking, and His legs won't move at all; It made a wreck of father when He tried to play baseball.

The smell of arnica abounds; He hobbles with a cane; A row of blisters mar his hands; He is in constant pain. But lame and weak as father is, He swears he'll lick us all If we dare even speak about The day he played baseball.



About Boys

Show me the boy who never threw A stone at someone's cat; Or never hurled a snowball swift At someone's high silk hat. Who never ran away from school, To seek the swimming hole; Or slyly from a neighbor's yard Green apples never stole. Show me the boy who never broke A pane of window glass; Who never disobeyed the sign That says: "Keep off the grass." Who never did a thousand things, That grieve us sore to tell; And I'll show you a little boy Who must be far from well.



Curly Locks

Curly locks, what do you know of the world, And what do your brown eyes see? Has your baby mind been able to find One thread of the mystery? Do you know of the sorrow and pain that lie In the realms that you've never seen? Have you even guessed of the great unrest In the world where you've never been?

Curly locks, what do you know of the world And what do you see in the skies? When you solemnly stare at the world out there Can you see where the future lies? What wonderful thoughts are you thinking now? Can it be that you really know That beyond your youth there are joy and ruth, On the way that you soon must go?



Baby's Got a Tooth

The telephone rang in my office to-day, as it often has tinkled before. I turned in my chair in a half-grouchy way, for a telephone call is a bore; And I thought, "It is somebody wanting to know the distance from here to Pekin." In a tone that was gruff I shouted "Hello," a sign for the talk to begin. "What is it?" I asked in a terrible way. I was huffy, to tell you the truth, Then over the wire I heard my wife say: "The baby, my dear, has a tooth!"

I have seen a man jump when the horse that he backed finished first in a well-driven race. I have heard the man cheer, as a matter of fact, and I've seen the blood rush to his face; I've been on the spot when good news has come in and I've witnessed expressions of glee That range from a yell to a tilt of the chin; and some things have happened to me That have thrilled me with joy from my toes to my head, but never from earliest youth Have I jumped with delight as I did when she said, "The baby, my dear, has a tooth."

I have answered the telephone thousands of times for messages both good and bad; I've received the reports of most horrible crimes, and news that was cheerful or sad; I've been telephoned this and been telephoned that, a joke, or an errand to run; I've been called to the phone for the idlest of chat, when there was much work to be done; But never before have I realized quite the thrill of a message, forsooth, Till over the wire came these words that I write, "The baby, my dear, has a tooth."



Home and the Baby

Home was never home before, Till the baby came. Love no golden jewels wore, Till the baby came. There was joy, but now it seems Dreams were not the rosy dreams, Sunbeams not such golden beams— Till the baby came.

Home was never really gay, Till the baby came. I'd forgotten how to play, Till the baby came. Smiles were never half so bright, Troubles never half so light, Worry never took to flight, Till the baby came.

Home was never half so blest, Till the baby came. Lacking something that was best, Till the baby came. Kisses were not half so sweet, Love not really so complete, Joy had never found our street Till the baby came.



The Fisherman

Along a stream that raced and ran Through tangled trees and over stones, That long had heard the pipes o' Pan And shared the joys that nature owns, I met a fellow fisherman, Who greeted me in cheerful tones.

The lines of care were on his face. I guessed that he had buried dead; Had run for gold full many a race, And kept great problems in his head, But in that gentle resting place No word of wealth or fame he said.

He showed me trout that he had caught And praised the larger ones of mine; Told me how that big beauty fought And almost broke his silken line; Spoke of the trees and sky, and thought Them proof of life and power divine.

There man to man we talked of trees And birds, as people talk of men; Discussed the busy ways of bees Wondered what lies beyond our ken; Where is the land no mortal sees, And shall we come this way again.

"Out here," he told me, with a smile, "Away from all the city's sham, The strife for splendor and for style, The ticker and the telegram I come for just a little while To be exactly as I am."

Foes think the bad in him they've guessed And prate about the wrong they scan; Friends that have seen him at his best Believe they know his every plan; I know him better than the rest, I know him as a fisherman.



The March of Mortality

Over the hills of time to the valley of endless years; Over the roads of woe to the land that is free from tears Up from the haunts of men to the place where the angels are, This is the march of mortality to a wonderful goal afar.

Troopers we are in life, warring at times with wrong, But promised ever unbroken rest at last in a land of song; And whether we serve or rule, and whether we fall or rise, We shall come, in time, to that golden vale where never the spirit dies.

Back of the strife for gain, and under the toil for fame, The dreams of men in this mortal march have ever remained the same. They have lived through their days and years for the great rewards to be, When earth's dusty garb shall be laid aside for the robes of eternity.

This is the march of mortality, whatever man's race or creed, And whether he's one of the savage tribe or one of a higher breed, He is conscious dimly of better things that were promised him long ago, And he keeps his place in the line with men for the joys that his soul shall know.



Growing Down

Time was I thought of growing up, But that was ere the babies came; I'd dream and plan to be a man And win my share of wealth and fame, For age held all the splendors then And wisdom seemed lifes brightest crown For mortal brow. It's different now. Each evening finds me growing down.

I'm not so keen for growing up To wrinkled cheek and heavy tongue, And sluggish blood; with little Bud I long to be a comrade young. His sports are joys I want to share, His games are games I want to play, An old man grim's no chum for him And so I'm growing down to-day.

I'm back to marbles and to tops, To flying kites and one-ol'-cat; "Fan acres!" I now loudly cry; I also take my turn at bat; I've had my fling at growing up And want no old man's fair renown. To be a boy is finer joy, And so I've started growing down.

Once more I'm learning games I knew When I was four and five and six, I'm going back along life's track To find the same old-fashioned tricks, And happy are the hours we spend Together, without sigh or frown. To be a boy is Age's joy, And so to him I'm growing down.



The Roads of Happiness

The roads of happiness are not The selfish roads of pleasure seeking, Where cheeks are flushed with haste and hot And none has time for kindly speaking. But they're the roads where lovers stray, Where wives and husbands walk together And children romp along the way Whenever it is pleasant weather.

The roads of happiness are trod By simple folks and tender-hearted, By gentle folks that worship God And want to live their days unparted. There kindly people stop and talk, Regardless of the chase for money, There, arm in arm, the grown-ups walk And every eye you see is sunny.

The roads of happiness are lined, Not with the friends of royal splendor, But with the loyal friends and kind That do the gentle deeds and tender. There fame has never brought unrest Nor glory set men's hearts to aching; There unabandoned is life's best For selfish love and money making.

The roads of happiness are those That do not lead to pomp and glory But wind among the joys and woes That make the humble toiler's story. The roads that oft we used to tread In early days when first we mated, When hearts were light and cheeks were red, And days were not with burdens freighted.



June

June is here, the month of roses, month of brides and month of bees, Weaving garlands for our lassies, whispering love songs in the trees, Painting scenes of gorgeous splendor, canvases no man could brush, Changing scenes from early morning till the sunset's crimson flush.

June is here, the month of blossoms, month of roses white and red, Wet with dew and perfume-laden, nodding wheresoe'er we tread; Come the bees to gather honey, all the lazy afternoon; Flowers and lassies, men and meadows, love alike the month of June.

Month of love and month of sunshine, month of happiness and song, Month that cheers the sad wayfarer as he plods the road along; Spreading out a velvet carpet, green and yellow, for his feet, And affording for his rest hours many a cool and sweet retreat.



When Mother Sleeps

When mother sleeps, a slamming door Disturbs her not at all; A man might walk across the floor Or wander through the hall A pistol shot outside would not Drive slumber from her eyes— But she is always on the spot The moment baby cries.

The thunder crash she would not hear, Nor shouting in the street; A barking dog, however near, Of sleep can never cheat Dear mother, but I've noticed this To my profound surprise: That always wide-awake she is The moment baby cries.

However weary she may be, Though wrapped in slumber deep, Somehow it always seems to me Her vigil she will keep. Sound sleeper that she is, I take It in her heart there lies A love that causes her to wake The moment baby cries.



The Weaver

The patter of rain on the roof, The glint of the sun on the rose; Of life, these the warp and the woof, The weaving that everyone knows. Now grief with its consequent tear, Now joy with its luminous smile; The days are the threads of the year— Is what I am weaving worth while?

What pattern have I on my loom? Shall my bit of tapestry please? Am I working with gray threads of gloom? Is there faith in the figures I seize? When my fingers are lifeless and cold, And the threads I no longer can weave Shall there be there for men to behold One sign of the things I believe?

God sends me the gray days and rare, The threads from his bountiful skein, And many, as sunshine, are fair. And some are as dark as the rain. And I think as I toil to express My life through the days slipping by, Shall my tapestry prove a success? What sort of a weaver am I?

Am I making the most of the red And the bright strands of luminous gold? Or blotting them out with the thread By which all men's failure is told? Am I picturing life as despair, As a thing men shall shudder to see, Or weaving a bit that is fair That shall stand as the record of me?



The Few

The easy roads are crowded And the level roads are jammed; The pleasant little rivers With the drifting folks are crammed. But off yonder where it's rocky, Where you get a better view, You will find the ranks are thinning And the travelers are few.

Where the going's smooth and pleasant You will always find the throng, For the many, more's the pity, Seem to like to drift along. But the steeps that call for courage, And the task that's hard to do In the end result in glory For the never-wavering few.



Real Swimming

I saw him in the distance, as the train went speeding by, A shivery little fellow standing in the sun to dry. And a little pile of clothing very near him I could see: He was owner of a gladness that had once belonged to me. I have shivered as he shivered, I have dried the way he dried, I've stood naked in God's sunshine with my garments at my side; And I thought as I beheld him, of the many weary men Who would like to go in swimming as a little boy again.

I saw him scarce a moment, yet I knew his lips were blue And I knew his teeth were chattering just as mine were wont to do; And I knew his merry playmates in the pond were splashing still; I could tell how much he envied all the boys that never chill; And throughout that lonesome journey, I kept living o'er and o'er The joys of going swimming when no bathing suits we wore; I was with that little fellow, standing chattering in the sun; I was sharing in his shivers and a partner of his fun.

Back to me there came the pictures that I never shall forget When I dared not travel homewards if my shock of hair was wet, When I did my brief undressing under fine and friendly trees In the days before convention rigged us up in b.v.d's. And I dived for stones and metal on the mill pond's muddy floor, Then stood naked in the sunshine till my blood grew warm once more. I was back again, a youngster, in those golden days of old, When my teeth were wont to chatter and my lips were blue with cold.



The Love of the Game

There is too much of sighing, and weaving Of pitiful tales of despair. There is too much of wailing and grieving, And too much of railing at care. There is far too much glorification Of money and pleasure and fame; But I sing the joy of my station, And I sing the love of my game.

There is too much of tremble-lip telling Of hurts that have come with the fight. There is too much of pitiful dwelling On plans that have failed to go right. There is too much of envious pining For luxuries others may claim. Too much thought of wining and dining, But I sing the love of my game.

There is too much of grim magnifying The troubles that come with the day, There is too much indifferent trying To travel a care-beset way. Too much do men think of gold-getting, Too much have they underwrit shame, Which accounts for the frowning and fretting, But I sing the joy of my game.

Let's get back to the work we are doing; Let us reckon its joys and its pain; Let us pause while our tasks we're reviewing, To sum up the cost of each gain. Let us give up our whining and wailing Because of the bruises that maim, And battle the chances of failing As being a part of the game.

Let us care more for serving than winning, Let us look at our woes as they are; It is time now that we were beginning To be less afraid of a scar. Let us cease in our glorification Of money and pleasure and fame, And find, whatsoe'er be our station, Our joy in the love of the game.



Roses and Sunshine

Rough is the road I am journeying now, Heavy the burden I'm bearing to-day; But I'm humming a song, as I wander along, And I smile at the roses that nod by the way. Red roses sweet, Blooming there at my feet, Just dripping with honey and perfume and cheer; What a weakling I'd be If I tried not to see The joy and the comfort you bring to us here.

Just tramping along o'er the highway of life, Knowing not what's ahead but still doing my best; And I sing as I go, for my soul seems to know In the end I shall come to the valley of rest. With the sun in my face And the roses to grace The roads that I travel, what have I to fear? What a coward I'd be If I tried not to see The roses of hope and the sunshine of cheer.