When Day is Done

The Project Gutenberg eBook of When Day is Done Plate apples ain't to be compared With those you've ventured for an' dared. It's winnin' 'em from branches high, Or nippin' 'em when no one's by, Or findin' 'em the time you feel You really need another meal, Or comin' unexpectedly Upon a farmer's loaded tree An' grabbin' all that you can eat, That goes to make an apple sweet. Green apple time! Go to it, boy, An' cram yourself right full o' joy; Watch for the farmer's dog an' run; There'll come a time it can't be done. There'll come a day you can't digest The fruit you've stuffed into your vest, Nor climb, but you'll sit down like me An' watch 'em ripening on the tree, An' jus' like me you'll have to wait To pick your apples from a plate. She Mothered Five She mothered five! Night after night she watched a little bed, Night after night she cooled a fevered head, Day after day she guarded little feet, Taught little minds the dangers of the street, Taught little lips to utter simple prayers, Whispered of strength that some day would be theirs, And trained them all to use it as they should. She gave her babies to the nation's good. She mothered five! She gave her beauty—from her cheeks let fade Their rose-blush beauty—to her mother trade. She saw the wrinkles furrowing her brow, Yet smiling said: "My boy grows stronger now." When pleasures called she turned away and said: "I dare not leave my babies to be fed By strangers' hands; besides they are too small; I must be near to hear them when they call." She mothered five! Night after night they sat about her knee And heard her tell of what some day would be. From her they learned that in the world outside Are cruelty and vice and selfishness and pride; From her they learned the wrongs they ought to shun, What things to love, what work must still be done. She led them through the labyrinth of youth And brought five men and women up to truth. She mothered five! Her name may be unknown save to the few; Of her the outside world but little knew; But somewhere five are treading virtue's ways, Serving the world and brightening its days; Somewhere are five, who, tempted, stand upright, Who cling to honor, keep her memory bright; Somewhere this mother toils and is alive No more as one, but in the breasts of five. Little Girls Are Best Little girls are mighty nice, Take 'em any way they come; They are always worth their price; Life without 'em would be glum; Run earth's lists of treasures through, Pile 'em high until they fall, Gold an' costly jewels, too— Little girls are best of all. Nothing equals 'em on earth! I'm an old man an' I know Any little girl is worth More than all the gold below; Eyes o' blue or brown or gray, Raven hair or golden curls, There's no joy on earth to-day Quite so fine as little girls. Pudgy nose or freckled face, Fairy-like or plain to see, God has surely blessed the place Where a little girl may be; They're the jewels of His crown Dropped to earth from heaven above, Like wee angel souls sent down To remind us of His love. God has made some lovely things— Roses red an' skies o' blue, Trees an' babbling silver springs, Gardens glistening with dew— But take every gift to man, Big an' little, great an' small, Judge it on its merits, an' Little girls are best of all! The World and Bud If we were all alike, what a dreadful world 'twould be! No one would know which one was you or which of us was me. We'd never have a "Skinny" or a "Freckles" or a "Fat," An' there wouldn't be a sissy boy to wear a velvet hat; An' we'd all of us be pitchers when we played a baseball match, For we'd never have a feller who'd have nerve enough to catch. If we were all alike an' looked an' thought the same, I wonder how'd they call us, 'cause there'd only be one name. An' there'd only be one flavor for our ice cream sodas, too, An' one color for a necktie an' I 'spose that would be blue; An' maybe we'd have mothers who were very fond of curls, An' they'd make us fellers wear our hair like lovely little girls. Sometimes I think it's funny when I hear some feller say That he isn't fond of chocolate, when I eat it every day. Or some other fellow doesn't like the books I like to read; But I'm glad that we are different, yes, siree! I am indeed. If everybody looked alike an' talked alike, Oh, Gee! We'd never know which one was you or which of us was me. Aw Gee Whiz! Queerest little chap he is, Always saying: "Aw Gee Whiz!" Needing something from the store That you've got to send him for And you call him from his play, Then it is you hear him say: "Aw Gee Whiz!" Seems that most expressive phrase Is a part of childhood days; Call him in at supper time, Hands and face all smeared with grime, Send him up to wash, and he Answers you disgustedly: "Aw Gee Whiz!" When it's time to go to bed And he'd rather play instead, As you call him from the street, He comes in with dragging feet, Knowing that he has to go, Then it is he mutters low: "Aw Gee Whiz!" Makes no difference what you ask Of him as a little task; He has yet to learn that life Crosses many a joy with strife, So when duty mars his play, Always we can hear him say: "Aw Gee Whiz!" Practicing Time Always whenever I want to play I've got to practice an hour a day, Get through breakfast an' make my bed, And Mother says: "Marjorie, run ahead! There's a time for work and a time for fun, So go and get your practicing done." And Bud, he chuckles and says to me: "Yes, do your practicing, Marjorie." A brother's an awful tease, you know, And he just says that 'cause I hate it so. They leave me alone in the parlor there To play the scales or "The Maiden's Prayer," And if I stop, Mother's bound to call, "Marjorie dear, you're not playing at all! Don't waste your time, but keep right on, Or you'll have to stay when the hour is gone." Or maybe the maid looks in at me And says: "You're not playing, as I can see. Just hustle along—I've got work to do And I can't dust the room until you get through." Then when I've run over the scales and things Like "The Fairies' Dance," or "The Mountain Springs," And my fingers ache and my head is sore, I find I must sit there a half hour more. An hour is terribly long, I say, When you've got to practice and want to play. So slowly at times has the big hand dropped That I was sure that the clock had stopped, But Mother called down to me: "Don't forget— A full hour, please. It's not over yet." Oh, when I get big and have children, too, There's one thing that I will never do— I won't have brothers to tease the girls And make them mad when they pull their curls And laugh at them when they've got to stay And practice their music an hour a day; I won't have a maid like the one we've got, That likes to boss you around a lot; And I won't have a clock that can go so slow When it's practice time, 'cause I hate it so. The Christmas Gift for Mother In the Christmas times of the long ago, There was one event we used to know That was better than any other; It wasn't the toys that we hoped to get, But the talks we had—and I hear them yet— Of the gift we'd buy for Mother. If ever love fashioned a Christmas gift, Or saved its money and practiced thrift, 'Twas done in those days, my brother— Those golden times of Long Gone By, Of our happiest years, when you and I Talked over the gift for Mother. We hadn't gone forth on our different ways Nor coined our lives into yesterdays In the fires that smelt and smother, And we whispered and planned in our youthful glee Of that marvelous "something" which was to be The gift of our hearts to Mother. It had to be all that our purse could give, Something she'd treasure while she could live, And better than any other. We gave it the best of our love and thought, And, Oh, the joy when at last we'd bought That marvelous gift for Mother! Now I think as we go on our different ways, Of the joy of those vanished yesterdays. How good it would be, my brother, If this Christmas-time we could only know That same sweet thrill of the Long Ago When we shared in the gift for Mother. Bedtime It's bedtime, and we lock the door, Put out the lights—the day is o'er; All that can come of good or ill, The record of this day to fill, Is written down; the worries cease, And old and young may rest in peace. We knew not when we started out What dangers hedged us all about, What little pleasures we should gain, What should be ours to bear of pain. But now the fires are burning low, And this day's history we know. No harm has come. The laughter here Has been unbroken by a tear; We've met no hurt too great to bear, We have not had to bow to care; The children all are safe in bed, There's nothing now for us to dread. When bedtime comes and we can say That we have safely lived the day. How sweet the calm that settles down And shuts away the noisy town! There is no danger now to fear Until to-morrow shall appear. When the long bedtime comes, and I In sleep eternal come to lie— When life has nothing more in store, And silently I close the door, God grant my weary soul may claim Security from hurt and shame. The Willing Horse I'd rather be the willing horse that people ride to death Than be the proud and haughty steed that children dare not touch; I'd rather haul a merry pack and finish out of breath Than never leave the barn to toil because I'm worth too much. So boast your noble pedigrees And talk of manners, if you please— The weary horse enjoys his ease When all his work is done; The willing horse, day in and out, Can hear the merry children shout And every time they are about He shares in all their fun. I want no guards beside my door to pick and choose my friends for me; I would not be shut off from men as is the fancy steed; I do not care when I go by that no one turns his eyes to see The dashing manner of my gait which marks my noble breed; I am content to trudge the road And willingly to draw my load— Sometimes to know the spur and goad When I begin to lag; I'd rather feel the collar jerk And tug at me, the while I work, Than all the tasks of life to shirk As does the stylish nag. So let me be the willing horse that now and then is overtasked, Let me be one the children love and freely dare to ride— I'd rather be the gentle steed of which too much is sometimes asked Than be the one that never knows the youngsters at his side. So drive me wheresoe'er you will, On level road or up the hill, Pile on my back the burdens still And run me out of breath— In love and friendship, day by day, And kindly words I'll take my pay; A willing horse; that is the way I choose to meet my death. Where Children Play On every street there's a certain place Where the children gather to romp and race; There's a certain house where they meet in throngs To play their games and to sing their songs, And they trample the lawn with their busy feet And they scatter their playthings about the street, But though some folks order them off, I say, Let the house be mine where the children play. Armies gather about the door And fill the air with their battle roar; Cowboys swinging their lariat loops Dash round the house with the wildest whoops, And old folks have to look out when they Are holding an Indian tribe at bay, For danger may find them on flying feet, Who pass by the house where the children meet. There are lawns too lovely to bear the weight Of a troop of boys when they roller skate; There are porches fine that must never know The stamping of footsteps that come and go, But on every street there's a favorite place Where the children gather to romp and race, And I'm glad in my heart that it's mine to say Ours is the house where the children play. How Do You Buy Your Money? How do you buy your money? For money is bought and sold, And each man barters himself on earth for his silver and shining gold, And by the bargain he makes with men, the sum of his life is told. Some buy their coins in a manly way, some buy them with honest toil; Some pay for their currency here on earth by tilling a patch of soil; Some buy it with copper and iron and steel, and some with barrels of oil. The good man buys it from day to day by giving the best he can; He coins his strength for his children's needs and lives to a simple plan, And he keeps some time for the home he makes and some for his fellowman. But some men buy it with women's tears, and some with a blasted name; And some will barter the joy of life for the fortune they hope to claim; And some are so mad for the clink of gold that they buy it with deeds of shame. How do you buy your money? For money demands its price, And some men think when they purchase coin that they mustn't be over-nice— But beware of the man who would sell you gold at a shameful sacrifice! Mother's Day Let every day be Mother's Day! Make roses grow along her way And beauty everywhere. Oh, never let her eyes be wet With tears of sorrow or regret, And never cease to care! Come, grown up children, and rejoice That you can hear your mother's voice! A day for her! For you she gave Long years of love and service brave; For you her youth was spent. There was no weight of hurt or care Too heavy for her strength to bear; She followed where you went; Her courage and her love sublime You could depend on all the time. No day or night she set apart On which to open wide her heart And welcome you within; There was no hour you would not be First in her thought and memory, Though you were black as sin! Though skies were gray or skies were blue Not once has she forgotten you. Let every day be Mother's Day! With love and roses strew her way, And smiles of joy and pride! Come, grown up children, to the knee Where long ago you used to be And never turn aside; Oh, never let her eyes grow wet With tears, because her babes forget. When We Play the Fool Last night I stood in a tawdry place And watched the ways of the human race. I looked at a party of shrieking girls Piled on a table that whirls and whirls, And saw them thrown in a tangled heap, Sprawling and squirming and several deep. And unto the wife who was standing by, "These are all angels to be," said I. I followed the ways of the merry throng And heard the laughter and mirth and song. Into a barrel which turned and swayed Men and women a journey made, And tumbling together they seemed to be Like so many porpoises out at sea— Men and women who'd worked all day, Eagerly seeking a chance to play. "What do you make of it all?" she said. I answered: "The dead are a long time dead, And care is bitter and duty stern, And each must weep when it comes his turn. And all grow weary and long for play, So here is laughter to end the day. Foolish? Oh, yes, it is that," said I, "But better the laugh than the dreary sigh. "Now look at us here, for we're like them, too, And many the foolish things we do. We often grow silly and seek a smile In a thousand ways that are not worth while; Yet after the mirth and the jest are through, We shall all be judged by the deeds we do, And God shall forget on the Judgment Day The fools we were in our hours of play." What Makes an Artist We got to talking art one day, discussing in a general way How some can match with brush and paint the glory of a tree, And some in stone can catch the things of which the dreamy poet sings, While others seem to have no way to tell the joys they see. Old Blake had sat in silence there and let each one of us declare Our notions of what's known as art, until he'd heard us through; And then said he: "It seems to me that any man, whoe'er he be, Becomes an artist by the good he daily tries to do. "He need not write the books men read to be an artist. No, indeed! He need not work with paint and brush to show his love of art; Who does a kindly deed to-day and helps another on his way, Has painted beauty on a face and played the poet's part. "Though some of us cannot express our inmost thoughts of loveliness, We prove we love the beautiful by how we act and live; The poet singing of a tree no greater poet is than he Who finds it in his heart some care unto a tree to give. "Though he who works in marble stone the name of artist here may own, No less an artist is the man who guards his children well; 'Tis art to love the fine and true; by what we are and what we do How much we love life's nobler things to all the world we tell." She Powders Her Nose 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?" Can't be happy till he knows: "Where's Mamma?" So he begs us to disclose "Where's Mamma?" And it often seems to me, As I hear his anxious plea, That no sweeter phrase can be: "Where's Mamma?" Like to hear it day by day; "Where's Mamma?" Loveliest phrase that lips can say: "Where's Mamma?" And I pray as time shall flow, And the long years come and go, That he'll always want to know "Where's Mamma?" Summer Dreams Drowsy old summer, with nothing to do, I'd like to be drowsin' an' dreamin' with you; I'd like to stretch out in the shade of a tree, An' fancy the white clouds were ships out at sea, Or castles with turrets and treasures and things, And peopled with princesses, fairies and kings, An' just drench my soul with the glorious joy Which was mine to possess as a barefooted boy. Drowsy old summer, your skies are as blue As the skies which a dreamy-eyed youngster once knew, An' I fancy to-day all the pictures are there— The ships an' the pirates an' princesses fair, The red scenes of battle, the gay, cheering throngs Which greeted the hero who righted all wrongs; But somehow or other, these old eyes of mine Can't see what they did as a youngster of nine. Drowsy old summer, I'd like to forget Some things which I've learned an' some hurts I have met; I'd like the old visions of splendor an' joy Which were mine to possess as a barefooted boy When I dreamed of the glorious deeds I would do As soon as I'd galloped my brief boyhood through; I'd like to come back an' look into your skies With that wondrous belief an' those far-seeing eyes. Drowsy old summer, my dream days have gone; Only things which are real I must now look upon; No longer I see in the skies overhead The pictures that were, for the last one has fled. I have learned that not all of our dreams can come true; That the toilers are many and heroes are few; But I'd like once again to look up there an' see The man that I fancied some day I might be. I Ain't Dead Yet Time was I used to worry and I'd sit around an' sigh, And think with every ache I got that I was goin' to die, I'd see disaster comin' from a dozen different ways An' prophesy calamity an' dark and dreary days. But I've come to this conclusion, that it's foolishness to fret; I've had my share o' sickness, but I Ain't Dead Yet! Wet springs have come to grieve me an' I've grumbled at the showers, But I can't recall a June-time that forgot to bring the flowers. I've had my business troubles, and looked failure in the face, But the crashes I expected seemed to pass right by the place. So I'm takin' life more calmly, pleased with everything I get, An' not over-hurt by losses, 'cause I Ain't Dead Yet! I've feared a thousand failures an' a thousand deaths I've died, I've had this world in ruins by the gloom I've prophesied. But the sun shines out this mornin' an' the skies above are blue, An' with all my griefs an' trouble, I have somehow lived 'em through. There may be cares before me, much like those that I have met; Death will come some day an' take me, but I Ain't Dead Yet! The Cure for Weariness Seemed like I couldn't stand it any more, The factory whistles blowin' day by day, An' men an' children hurryin' by the door, An' street cars clangin' on their busy way. The faces of the people seemed to be Washed pale by tears o' grief an' strife an' care, Till everywhere I turned to I could see The same old gloomy pictures of despair. The windows of the shops all looked the same, Decked out with stuff their owners wished to sell; When visitors across our doorway came I could recite the tales they'd have to tell. All things had lost their old-time power to please; Dog-tired I was an' irritable, too, An' so I traded chimney tops for trees, An' shingled roof for open skies of blue. I dropped my tools an' took my rod an' line An' tackle box an' left the busy town; I found a favorite restin' spot of mine Where no one seeks for fortune or renown. I whistled to the birds that flew about, An' built a lot of castles in my dreams; I washed away the stains of care an' doubt An' thanked the Lord for woods an' running streams. I've cooked my meals before an open fire, I've had the joy of green smoke in my face, I've followed for a time my heart's desire An' now the path of duty I retrace. I've had my little fishin' trip, an' go Once more contented to the haunts of men; I'm ready now to hear the whistles blow An' see the roofs an' chimney tops again. To an Old Friend When we have lived our little lives and wandered all their byways through, When we've seen all that we shall see and finished all that we must do, When we shall take one backward look off yonder where our journey ends, I pray that you shall be as glad as I shall be that we were friends. Time was we started out to find the treasures and the joys of life; We sought them in the land of gold through many days of bitter strife. When we were young we yearned for fame; in search of joy we went afar, Only to learn how very cold and distant all the strangers are. When we have met all we shall meet and know what destiny has planned, I shall rejoice in that last hour that I have known your friendly hand; I shall go singing down the way off yonder as my sun descends As one who's had a happy life, made glorious by the best of friends. Satisfied With Life I have known the green trees and the skies overhead And the blossoms of spring and the fragrance they shed; I have known the blue sea, and the mountains afar And the song of the pines and the light of a star; And should I pass now, I could say with a smile That my pilgrimage here has been well worth my while. I have known the warm handclasp of friends who were true; I have shared in their pleasures and wept with them, too; I have heard the gay laughter which sweeps away care And none of the comrades I've made could I spare; And should this be all, I could say ere I go, That life is worth while just such friendships to know. I have builded a home where we've loved and been glad; I have known the rich joy of a girl and a lad; I have had their caresses through storm and through shine, And watched them grow lovely, those youngsters of mine; And I think as I hold them at night on my knee, That life has been generous surely to me. Autumn Evenings Apples on the table an' the grate-fire blazin' high, Oh, I'm sure the whole world hasn't any happier man than I; The Mother sittin' mendin' little stockin's, toe an' knee, An' tellin' all that's happened through the busy day to me: Oh, I don't know how to say it, but these cosy autumn nights Seem to glow with true contentment an' a thousand real delights. The dog sprawled out before me knows that huntin' days are here, 'Cause he dreams and seems to whimper that a flock o' quail are near; An' the children playin' checkers till it's time to go to bed, Callin' me to settle questions whether black is beatin' red; Oh, these nights are filled with gladness, an' I puff my pipe an' smile, An' tell myself the struggle an' the work are both worth while. The flames are full o' pictures that keep dancin' to an' fro, Bringin' back the scenes o' gladness o' the happy long ago, An' the whole wide world is silent an' I tell myself just this— That within these walls I cherish, there is all my world there is! Can I keep the love abiding in these hearts so close to me, An' the laughter of these evenings, I shall gain life's victory. Memorial Day These did not pass in selfishness; they died for all mankind; They died to build a better world for all who stay behind; And we who hold their memory dear, and bring them flowers to-day, Should consecrate ourselves once more to live and die as they. These were defenders of the faith and guardians of the truth; That you and I might live and love, they gladly gave their youth; And we who set this day apart to honor them who sleep Should pledge ourselves to hold the faith they gave their lives to keep. If tears are all we shed for them, then they have died in vain; If flowers are all we bring them now, forgotten they remain; If by their courage we ourselves to courage are not led, Then needlessly these graves have closed above our heroes dead. To symbolize our love with flowers is not enough to do; We must be brave as they were brave, and true as they were true. They died to build a better world, and we who mourn to-day Should consecrate ourselves once more to live and die as they. The Happy Man If you would know a happy man, Go find the fellow who Has had a bout with trouble grim And just come smiling through. The load is off his shoulders now, Where yesterday he frowned And saw no joy in life, to-day He laughs his way around. He's done the very thing he thought That he could never do; His sun is shining high to-day And all his skies are blue. He's stronger than he was before; Should trouble come anew He'll know how much his strength can bear And how much he can do. To-day he has the right to smile, And he may gaily sing, For he has conquered where he feared The pain of failure's sting. Comparison has taught him, too, The sweetest hours are those Which follow on the heels of care, With laughter and repose. If you would meet a happy man, Go find the fellow who Has had a bout with trouble grim And just come smiling through. The Song of the Builder I sink my piers to the solid rock, And I send my steel to the sky, And I pile up the granite, block by block Full twenty stories high; Nor wind nor weather shall wash away The thing that I've builded, day by day. Here's something of mine that shall ever stand Till another shall tear it down; Here is the work of my brain and hand, Towering above the town. And the idlers gay in their smug content, Have nothing to leave for a monument. Here from my girders I look below At the throngs which travel by, For little that's real will they leave to show When it comes their time to die. But I, when my time of life is through, Will leave this building for men to view. Oh, the work is hard and the days are long, But hammers are tools for men, And granite endures and steel is strong, Outliving both brush and pen. And ages after my voice is stilled, Men shall know I lived by the things I build. Old Years and New Old years and new years, all blended into one, The best of what there is to be, the best of what is gone— Let's bury all the failures in the dim and dusty past And keep the smiles of friendship and laughter to the last. Old years and new years, life's in the making still; We haven't come to glory yet, but there's the hope we will; The dead old year was twelve months long, but now from it we're free, And what's one year of good or bad to all the years to be? Old years and new years, we need them one and all To reach the dome of character and build its sheltering wall; Past failures tried the souls of us, but if their tests we stood. The sum of what we are to be may yet be counted good. Old years and new years, with all their pain and strife, Are but the bricks and steel and stone with which we fashion life; So put the sin and shame away, and keep the fine and true, And on the glory of the past let's build the better new. When We're All Alike I've trudged life's highway up and down; I've watched the lines of men march by; I've seen them in the busy town, And seen them under country sky; I've talked with toilers in the ranks, And walked with men whose hands were white, And learned, when closed were stores and banks, We're nearly all alike at night. Just find the wise professor when He isn't lost in ancient lore, And he, like many other men, Romps with his children on the floor. He puts his gravity aside To share in innocent delight. Stripped of position's pomp and pride, We're nearly all the same at night. Serving a common cause, we go Unto our separate tasks by day, And rich or poor or great or low, Regardless of their place or pay, Cherish the common dreams of men— A home where love and peace unite. We serve the self-same end and plan, We're all alike when it is night. Each for his loved ones wants to do His utmost. Brothers are we all, When we have run the work-day through, In romping with our children small; Rich men and poor delight in play When care and caste have taken flight. At home, in all we think and say, We're very much the same at night. The Things You Can't Forget They ain't much, seen from day to day— The big elm tree across the way, The church spire, an' the meetin' place Lit up by many a friendly face. You pass 'em by a dozen times An' never think o' them in rhymes, Or fit for poet's singin'. Yet They're all the things you can't forget; An' they're the things you'll miss some day If ever you should go away. The people here ain't much to see— Jes' common folks like you an' me, Doin' the ordinary tasks Which life of everybody asks: Old Dr. Green, still farin' 'round To where his patients can be found, An' Parson Hill, serene o' face, Carryin' God's message every place, An' Jim, who keeps the grocery store— Yet they are folks you'd hunger for. They seem so plain when close to view— Bill Barker, an' his brother too, The Jacksons, men of higher rank Because they chance to run the bank, Yet friends to every one round here, Quiet an' kindly an' sincere, Not much to sing about or praise, Livin' their lives in modest ways— Yet in your memory they'd stay If ever you should go away. These are things an' these the men Some day you'll long to see again. Now it's so near you scarcely see The beauty o' that big elm tree, But some day later on you will An' wonder if it's standin' still, An' if the birds return to sing An' make their nests there every spring. Mebbe you scorn them now, but they Will bring you back again some day. The Making of Friends If nobody smiled and nobody cheered and nobody helped us along, If each every minute looked after himself and good things all went to the strong, If nobody cared just a little for you, and nobody thought about me, And we stood all alone to the battle of life, what a dreary old world it would be! If there were no such a thing as a flag in the sky as a symbol of comradeship here, If we lived as the animals live in the woods, with nothing held sacred or dear, And selfishness ruled us from birth to the end, and never a neighbor had we, And never we gave to another in need, what a dreary old world it would be! Oh, if we were rich as the richest on earth and strong as the strongest that lives, Yet never we knew the delight and the charm of the smile which the other man gives, If kindness were never a part of ourselves, though we owned all the land we could see, And friendship meant nothing at all to us here, what a dreary old world it would be! Life is sweet just because of the friends we have made and the things which in common we share; We want to live on not because of ourselves, but because of the people who care; It's giving and doing for somebody else—on that all life's splendor depends, And the joy of this world, when you've summed it all up, is found in the making of friends. The Deeds of Anger I used to lose my temper an' git mad an' tear around An' raise my voice so wimmin folks would tremble at the sound; I'd do things I was ashamed of when the fit of rage had passed, An' wish I hadn't done 'em, an' regret 'em to the last; But I've learned from sad experience how useless is regret, For the mean things done in anger are the things you can't forget. 'Tain't no use to kiss the youngster once your hand has made him cry; You'll recall the time you struck him till the very day you die; He'll forget it an' forgive you an' to-morrow seem the same, But you'll keep the hateful picture of your sorrow an' your shame, An' it's bound to rise to taunt you, though you long have squared the debt, For the things you've done in meanness are the things you can't forget. Lord, I sometimes sit an' shudder when some scene comes back to me, Which shows me big an' brutal in some act o' tyranny, When some triflin' thing upset me an' I let my temper fly, An' was sorry for it after—but it's vain to sit an' sigh. So I'd be a whole sight happier now my sun begins to set, If it wasn't for the meanness which I've done an' can't forget. Now I think I've learned my lesson an' I'm treadin' gentler ways, An' I try to build my mornings into happy yesterdays; I don't let my temper spoil 'em in the way I used to do An' let some splash of anger smear the record when it's through; I want my memories pleasant, free from shame or vain regret, Without any deeds of anger which I never can forget.

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