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diff --git a/28903.txt b/28903.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..43b3f2b --- /dev/null +++ b/28903.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2480 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of All That Matters, by Edgar A. Guest + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: All That Matters + +Author: Edgar A. Guest + +Illustrator: Various + +Release Date: May 21, 2009 [EBook #28903] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALL THAT MATTERS *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Diane Monico, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + +All That Matters + +by + +EDGAR A. GUEST + + +_With Pictures +by_ + +W. T. BENDA M. L. BOWER +F. X. LEYENDECKER +F. C. YOHN H. C. PITZ +ROBERT E. JOHNSTON +HARVEY EMRICH +PRUETT CARTER + + +[Illustration] + + +THE REILLY & LEE CO. +_Chicago_ + + + + +_Printed in the United States of America_ + +_Copyright, 1922_ +_by_ +THE REILLY & LEE CO. + +_All Rights Reserved_ + +_Illustrations Copyrighted, 1920, 1921, 1922 +by The International Magazine Company +and reproduced by special +arrangement with +the Cosmopolitan Magazine_ + +_Second Printing--August, 1922 +Third Printing--October, 1922_ + +_All That Matters_ + + +[Illustration: _"All That Matters"_ + +_From a painting by_ FRANK X. LEYENDECKER.] + + + + +INDEX + + +_Poem_ _Page_ + +Accomplished Care 66 +Afraid of His Dad 94 +All That Matters 9 + +Boy and His Dad, A 36 +Boy's Ideal, The 30 +Bread and Gravy 38 +Bulb Planting Time 67 + +Call, The 11 +Clinching the Bolt 50 +Common Touch, The 32 + +Denial 72 + +Effort 86 +Example 53 + +Family Doctor, The 70 +Forgetful Pa 18 +Frosting Dish, The 24 + +God Made This Day For Me 16 +Grate Fire, The 40 + +Harder Part, The 62 +His Other Chance 68 +His Pa 52 +Homely Man, The 76 + +Joys We Miss, The 44 +Just Half of That, Please 31 +Just Like a Man 48 + +Kindly Neighbor, The 42 + +Life 80 +Little Feet 46 +Living 88 +Lonely Old Fellow, The 82 + +Marjorie 33 +Mother and the Baby 12 +Motherhood 20 + +Need, The 56 +Newspaper Man, The 34 + +Old-Fashioned Letters 14 +One In Ten, The 91 + +Play the Game 26 +Playing For Keeps 22 + +Service 96 +Somebody Else 84 +Success 81 + +Tears Expressive, The 43 +Ten-Fingered Mice 58 +Things They Mustn't Touch, The 60 +To a Young Man 92 + +Unchangeable Mother 78 +Until She Died 10 + +Warm House and a Ruddy Fire, A 90 +When the Young are Grown 28 +Winding the Clock 54 +Workman's Dream, The 74 + +Youth 64 + + + + +_"All That Matters" +Is Dedicated +To My Wife +Who Is +All To Me_ + + _E. A. G._ + + + + +ALL THAT MATTERS + + +When all that matters shall be written down +And the long record of our years is told, +Where sham, like flesh, must perish and grow cold; +When the tomb closes on our fair renown +And priest and layman, sage and motleyed clown +Must quit the places which they dearly hold, +What to our credit shall we find enscrolled? +And what shall be the jewels of our crown? +I fancy we shall hear to our surprise +Some little deeds of kindness, long forgot, +Telling our glory, and the brave and wise +Deeds which we boasted often, mentioned not. +God gave us life not just to buy and sell, +And all that matters is to live it well. + + + + +UNTIL SHE DIED + + +Until she died we never knew + The beauty of our faith in God. + We'd seen the summer roses nod +And wither as the tempests blew, + Through many a spring we'd lived to see + The buds returning to the tree. + +We had not felt the touch of woe; + What cares had come, had lightly flown; + Our burdens we had borne alone-- +The need of God we did not know. + It seemed sufficient through the days + To think and act in worldly ways. + +And then she closed her eyes in sleep; + She left us for a little while; + No more our lives would know her smile. +And oh, the hurt of it went deep! + It seemed to us that we must fall + Before the anguish of it all. + +Our faith, which had not known the test, + Then blossomed with its comfort sweet, + Promised that some day we should meet +And whispered to us: "He knows best." + And when our bitter tears were dried, + We found our faith was glorified. + + + + +THE CALL + + +I must get out to the woods again, to the whispering tree, and the + birds a-wing, +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. + + + + +MOTHER AND THE BABY + + +Mother and the baby! Oh, I know no lovelier pair, +For all the dreams of all the world are hovering 'round them there; +And be the baby in his cot or nestling in her arms, +The picture they present is one with never-fading charms. + +Mother and the baby--and the mother's eye aglow +With joys that only mothers see and only mothers know! +And here is all there is to strife and all there is to fame, +And all that men have struggled for since first a baby came. + +I never see this lovely pair nor hear the mother sing +The lullabies of babyhood, but I start wondering +How much of every man to-day the world thinks wise or brave +Is of the songs his mother sang and of the strength she gave. + +[Illustration: _"Mother And The Baby"_ + +_From a drawing by_ W. T. BENDA.] + +"Just like a mother!" Oh, to be so tender and so true, +No man has reached so high a plane with all he's dared to do. +And yet, I think she understands, with every step she takes +And every care that she bestows, it is the man she makes. + +Mother and the baby! And in fancy I can see +Her life being given gladly to the man that is to be, +And from her strength and sacrifice and from her lullabies, +She dreams and hopes and nightly prays a strong man shall arise. + + + + +OLD-FASHIONED LETTERS + + +Old-fashioned letters! How good they were! + And nobody writes them now; +Never at all comes in the scrawl +On the written pages which told us all +The news of town and the folks we knew, +And what they had done or were going to do. + It seems we've forgotten how +To spend an hour with our pen in hand +To write in the language we understand. + +Old-fashioned letters we used to get + And ponder each fond line o'er; +The glad words rolled like running gold, +As smoothly their tales of joy they told, +And our hearts beat fast with a keen delight +As we read the news they were pleased to write + And gathered the love they bore. +But few of the letters that come to-day +Are penned to us in the old-time way. + +Old-fashioned letters that told us all + The tales of the far away; +Where they'd been and the folks they'd seen; +And better than any fine magazine +Was the writing too, for it bore the style +Of a simple heart and a sunny smile, + And was pure as the breath of May. +Some of them oft were damp with tears, +But those were the letters that lived for years. + +Old-fashioned letters! How good they were! + And, oh, how we watched the mails; +But nobody writes of the quaint delights +Of the sunny days and the merry nights +Or tells us the things that we yearn to know-- +That art passed out with the long ago, + And lost are the simple tales; +Yet we all would happier be, I think, +If we'd spend more time with our pen and ink. + + + + +GOD MADE +THIS DAY FOR ME + + +Jes' the sort o' weather and jes' the sort o' sky +Which seem to suit my fancy, with the white clouds driftin' by +On a sea o' smooth blue water. Oh, I ain't an egotist, +With an "I" in all my thinkin', but I'm willin' to insist +That the Lord that made us humans an' the birds in every tree +Knows my special sort o' weather an' He made this day fer me. + +This is jes' my style o' weather--sunshine floodin' all the place, +An' the breezes from the eastward blowin' gently on my face. +An' the woods chock-full o' singin' till you'd think birds never had +A single care to fret 'em or a grief to make 'em sad. +Oh, I settle down contented in the shadow of a tree, +An' tell myself right proudly that the day was made fer me. + +[Illustration: _"God Made This Day For Me"_ + +_From a painting by_ M. L. BOWER.] + +It's my day, sky an' sunshine, an' the temper o' the breeze. +Here's the weather I would fashion could I run things as I please-- +Beauty dancin' all around me, music ringin' everywhere, +Like a weddin' celebration. Why, I've plumb fergot my care +An' the tasks I should be doin' fer the rainy days to be, +While I'm huggin' the delusion that God made this day fer me. + + + + +FORGETFUL PA + + +My Pa says that he used to be +A bright boy in geography; +An' when he went to school he knew +The rivers an' the mountains, too, +An' all the capitals of states +An' bound'ry lines an' all the dates +They joined the union. But last night +When I was studyin' to recite +I asked him if he would explain +The leading industries of Maine-- +He thought an' thought an' thought a lot, +An' said, "I knew, but I've forgot." + +My Pa says when he was in school +He got a hundred as a rule; +An' grammar was a thing he knew +Becoz he paid attention to +His teacher, an' he learned the way +To write good English, an' to say +The proper things, an' I should be +As good a boy in school as he. +But once I asked him could he give +Me help with the infinitive-- +He scratched his head and said: "Great Scott! +I used to know, but I've forgot." + +My Pa says when he was a boy +Arithmetic was just a toy; +He learned his tables mighty fast +An' every term he always passed, +An' had good marks, an' teachers said: +"That youngster surely has a head." +But just the same I notice now +Most every time I ask him how +To find the common multiple, +He says, "That's most unusual! +Once I'd have told you on the spot, +But somehow, sonny, I've forgot." +I'm tellin' you just what is what, +My Pa's forgot an awful lot! + + + + +MOTHERHOOD + + +I wonder if he'll stop to think, + When the long years have traveled by, +Who heard his plea: "I want a drink!" + Who was the first to hear him cry? +I wonder if he will recall + The patience of her and the smile, +The kisses after every fall, + The love that lasted all the while? + +I wonder, as I watch them there, + If he'll remember, when he's grown, +How came the silver in her hair + And why her loveliness has flown? +Yet thus my mother did for me, + Night after night and day by day, +For such a care I used to be, + As such a boy I used to play. + +I know that I was always sure + Of tenderness at mother's knee, +That every hurt of mine she'd cure, + And every fault she'd fail to see. +But who recalls the tears she shed, + And all the wishes gratified, +The eager journeys to his bed, + The pleas which never she denied? + +[Illustration: _"Motherhood"_ + +_From a painting by_ ROBERT E. JOHNSTON.] + +I took for granted, just as he, + The boundless love that mother gives, +But watching them I've come to see + Time teaches every man who lives +How much of him is not his own; + And now I know the countless ways +By which her love for me was shown, + And I recall forgotten days. + +Perhaps some day a little chap + As like him as he's now like me, +Shall climb into his mother's lap, + For comfort and for sympathy, +And he shall know what now I know, + And see through eyes a trifle dim, +The mother of the long ago + Who daily spent her strength for him. + + + + +PLAYING FOR KEEPS + + +I've watched him change from his bibs and things, from bonnets known + as "cute," +To little frocks, and later on I saw him don a suit; +And though it was of calico, those knickers gave him joy, +Until the day we all agreed 'twas time for corduroy. +I say I've seen the changes come, it seems with bounds and leaps, +But here's another just arrived--he's playing mibs for keeps! + +The guide posts of his life fly by. The boy that is to-day, +To-morrow morning we may wake to find has gone away, +And in his place will be a lad we've never known before, +Older and wiser in his ways, and filled with new-found lore. +Now here's another boy to-day, counting his marble heaps +And proudly boasting to his dad he's playing mibs for keeps! + +His mother doesn't like this change. She says it is a shame-- +That since he plays with larger boys, he's bound to lose the game. +But little do I mind his loss; I'm more concerned to know +The way he acts the times when he must see his marbles go. +And oh, I hope he will not be the little boy who weeps +Too much when he has failed to win while playing mibs for keeps. + +Playing for keeps! Another step toward manhood's broad estate! +This is what some term growing up, or destiny, or fate. +Yet from this game with marbles, played with youngsters on the street, +I hope will come a larger boy, too big to lie or cheat, +And by these mibs which from his clutch another madly sweeps, +I hope he'll learn the game of life which must be played for keeps. + + + + +THE FROSTING DISH + + +When I was just a little tad + Not more than eight or nine, +One special treat to make me glad + Was set apart as "mine." +On baking days she granted me + The small boy's dearest wish, +And when the cake was finished, she + Gave me the frosting dish. + +I've eaten chocolate many ways, + I've had it hot and cold; +I've sampled it throughout my days + In every form it's sold. +And though I still am fond of it, + And hold its flavor sweet, +The icing dish, I still admit, + Remains the greatest treat. + +Never has chocolate tasted so, + Nor brought to me such joy +As in those days of long ago + When I was but a boy, +And stood beside my mother fair, + Waiting the time when she +Would gently stoop to kiss me there + And hand the plate to me. + +[Illustration: _"The Frosting Dish"_ + +_From a painting by_ H. C. PITZ.] + +Now there's another in my place + Who stands where once I stood. +And watches with an upturned face + And waits for "something good." +And as she hands him spoon and plate + I chuckle low and wish +That I might be allowed to wait + To scrape the frosting dish. + + + + +PLAY THE GAME + + +When the umpire calls you out, + It's no use to stamp and shout, +Wildly kicking dust about-- + Play the game! +And though his decision may +End your chances for the day, +Rallies often end that way-- + Play the game! + +When the umpire shouts: "Strike two!" +And the ball seems wide to you, +There is just one thing to do: + Play the game! +Keep your temper at the plate, +Grit your teeth and calmly wait, +For the next one may be straight + Play the game! + +When you think the umpire's wrong, +Tell him so, but jog along; +Nothing's gained by language strong-- + Play the game! +For his will must be obeyed +Wheresoever baseball's played, +Take his verdict as it's made-- + Play the game! + +Son of mine, beyond a doubt, + Fate shall often call you "out," +But keep on, with courage stout-- + Play the game! +In the battlefield of men +There'll come trying moments when +You shall lose the verdict--then + Play the game! + +There's an umpire who shall say +You have missed your greatest play, +And shall dash your hopes away-- + Play the game! +You must bow unto his will +Though your chance it seems to kill, +And you think he erred, but still + Play the game! + +For the Great Umpire above +Sees what we see nothing of, +By His wisdom and His love-- + Play the game! +Keep your faith in Him although +His grim verdicts hurt you so, +At His Will we come and go-- + Play the game! + + + + +WHEN THE +YOUNG ARE GROWN + + +Once the house was lovely, but it's lonely here to-day, +For time has come an' stained its walls an' called the young away; +An' all that's left for mother an' for me till life is through +Is to sit an' tell each other what the children used to do. + +We couldn't keep 'em always an' we knew it from the start; +We knew when they were babies that some day we'd have to part. +But the years go by so swiftly, an' the littlest one has flown, +An' there's only me an' mother now left here to live alone. + +Oh, there's just one consolation, as we're sittin' here at night, +They've grown to men an' women, an' we brought 'em up all right; +We've watched 'em as we've loved 'em an' they're splendid, every one, +An' we feel the Lord won't blame us for the way our work was done. + +[Illustration: _"When The Young Are Grown"_ + +_From a painting by_ ROBERT E. JOHNSTON.] + +They're clean, an' kind an' honest, an' the world respects 'em, too; +That's the dream of parents always, an' our dreams have all come true. +So although the house is lonely an' sometimes our eyes grow wet, +We are proud of them an' happy an' we've nothing to regret. + + + + +THE BOY'S IDEAL + + +I must be fit for a child to play with, +Fit for a youngster to walk away with; + Fit for his trust and fit to be + Ready to take him upon my knee; +Whether I win or I lose my fight, +I must be fit for my boy at night. + +I must be fit for a child to come to, +Speech there is that I must be dumb to; + I must be fit for his eyes to see, + He must find nothing of shame in me; +Whatever I make of myself, I must +Square to my boy's unfaltering trust. + +I must be fit for a child to follow, +Scorning the places where loose men wallow; + Knowing how much he shall learn from me, + I must be fair as I'd have him be; +I must come home to him, day by day, +Clean as the morning I went away. + +I must be fit for a child's glad greeting, +His are eyes that there is no cheating; + He must behold me in every test, + Not at my worst, but my very best; +He must be proud when my life is done +To have men know that he is my son. + + + + +JUST HALF OF THAT, PLEASE + + +Grandmother says when I pass her the cake: + "Just half of that, please." +If I serve her the tenderest portion of steak: + "Just half of that, please." +And be the dessert a rice pudding or pie, +As I pass Grandma's share she is sure to reply, +With the trace of a twinkle to light up her eye: + "Just half of that, please." + +I've cut down her portions but still she tells me: + "Just half of that, please." +Though scarcely a mouthful of food she can see: + "Just half of that, please." +If I pass her the chocolates she breaks one in two, +There's nothing so small but a smaller will do, +And she says, perhaps fearing she's taking from you: + "Just half of that, please." + +When at last Grandma leaves us the angels will hear: + "Just half of that, please." +When with joys for the gentle and brave they appear: + "Just half of that, please." +And for fear they may think she is selfish up there, +Or is taking what may be a young angel's share, +She will say with the loveliest smile she can wear: + "Just half of that, please." + + + + +THE COMMON TOUCH + + +I would not be too wise--so very wise + That I must sneer at simple songs and creeds, +And let the glare of wisdom blind my eyes + To humble people and their humble needs. + +I would not care to climb so high that I + Could never hear the children at their play, +Could only see the people passing by, + Yet never hear the cheering words they say. + +I would not know too much--too much to smile + At trivial errors of the heart and hand, +Nor be too proud to play the friend the while, + And cease to help and know and understand. + +I would not care to sit upon a throne, + Or build my house upon a mountain-top. +Where I must dwell in glory all alone + And never friend come in or poor man stop. + +God grant that I may live upon this earth + And face the tasks which every morning brings, +And never lose the glory and the worth + Of humble service and the simple things. + +[Illustration: _"The Common Touch"_ + +_From a painting by_ HARVEY EMRICH.] + + + + +MARJORIE + + +The house is as it was when she was here; + There's nothing changed at all about the place; +The books she loved to read are waiting near + As if to-morrow they would see her face; +Her room remains the way it used to be, + Here are the puzzles that she pondered on: +Yet since the angels called for Marjorie + The joyous spirit of the home has gone. + +All things grew lovely underneath her touch, + The room was bright because it knew her smile; +From her the tiniest trinket gathered much, + The cheapest toy became a thing worth while; +Yet here are her possessions as they were, + No longer joys to set the eyes aglow; +To-day, as we, they seem to mourn for her, + And share the sadness that is ours to know. + +Half sobbing now, we put her games away, + Because, dumb things, they cannot understand +Why never more shall Marjorie come to play, + And we have faith in God at our command. +These toys we smiled at once, now start our tears, + They seem to wonder why they lie so still, +They call her name, and will throughout the years-- + God, strengthen us to bow unto Thy will. + + + + +THE NEWSPAPER MAN + + +Bit of a priest and a bit of sailor, +Bit of a doctor and bit of a tailor, +Bit of a lawyer, and bit of detective, +Bit of a judge, for his work is corrective; +Cheering the living and soothing the dying, +Risking all things, even dare-devil flying; +True to his paper and true to his clan-- +Just look him over, the newspaper man. + +Sleep! There are times that he'll do with a little, +Work till his nerves and his temper are brittle; +Fire cannot daunt him, nor long hours disturb him, +Gold cannot buy him and threats cannot curb him; +Highbrow or lowbrow, your own speech he'll hand you, +Talk as you will to him, he'll understand you; +He'll go wherever another man can-- +That is the way of the newspaper man. + +Surgeon, if urgent the need be, you'll find him, +Ready to help, nor will dizziness blind him; +He'll give the ether and never once falter, +Say the last rites like a priest at the altar; +Gentle and kind with the weak and the weary, +Which is proved now and then when his keen eye grows teary; +Facing all things in life's curious plan-- +That is the way of the newspaper man. + +One night a week may he rest from his labor, +One night at home to be father and neighbor; +Just a few hours for his own bit of leisure, +All the rest's gazing at other men's pleasure, +All the rest's toiling, and yet he rejoices, +All the world is, and that men do, he voices-- +Who knows a calling more glorious than +The day-by-day work of the newspaper man? + + + + +A BOY AND HIS DAD + + +A boy and his dad on a fishing-trip-- +There is a glorious fellowship! +Father and son and the open sky +And the white clouds lazily drifting by, +And the laughing stream as it runs along +With the clicking reel like a martial song, +And the father teaching the youngster gay +How to land a fish in the sportsman's way. + +I fancy I hear them talking there +In an open boat, and the speech is fair. +And the boy is learning the ways of men +From the finest man in his youthful ken. +Kings, to the youngster, cannot compare +With the gentle father who's with him there. +And the greatest mind of the human race +Not for one minute could take his place. + +Which is happier, man or boy? +The soul of the father is steeped in joy, +For he's finding out, to his heart's delight, +That his son is fit for the future fight. +He is learning the glorious depths of him, +And the thoughts he thinks and his every whim; +And he shall discover, when night comes on, +How close he has grown to his little son. + +[Illustration: _"A Boy And His Dad"_ + +_From a painting by_ M. L. BOWER.] + +A boy and his dad on a fishing-trip-- +Builders of life's companionship! +Oh, I envy them, as I see them there +Under the sky in the open air, +For out of the old, old long-ago +Come the summer days that I used to know, +When I learned life's truths from my father's lips +As I shared the joy of his fishing-trips. + + + + +BREAD AND GRAVY + + +There's a heap o' satisfaction in a chunk o' pumpkin pie, +An' I'm always glad I'm livin' when the cake is passin' by; +An' I guess at every meal-time I'm as happy as can be, +For I like whatever dishes Mother gets for Bud an' me; +But there's just one bit of eatin' which I hold supremely great, +An' that's good old bread and gravy when I've finished up my plate. + +I've eaten fancy dishes an' my mouth has watered, too; +I've been at banquet tables an' I've run the good things through; +I've had sea food up in Boston, I've had pompano down South, +For most everything that's edible I've put into my mouth; +But the finest treat I know of, now I publicly relate, +Is a chunk of bread and gravy when I've finished up my plate. + +Now the epicures may snicker and the hotel chefs may smile, +But when it comes to eating I don't hunger much for style; +For an empty man wants fillin' an' you can't do that with things +Like breast o' guinea under glass, or curried turkey wings-- +You want just plain home cookin' an' the chance to sit an' wait +For a piece o' bread an' gravy when you've finished up your plate. + +Oh, it may be I am common an' my tastes not much refined, +But the meals which suit my fancy are the good old-fashioned kind, +With the food right on the table an' the hungry kids about +An' the mother an' the father handing all the good things out, +An' the knowledge in their presence that I needn't fear to state, +That I'd like some bread an' gravy when I've finished up my plate. + + + + +THE GRATE FIRE + + +I'm sorry for a fellow if he cannot look and see +In a grate fire's friendly flaming all the joys which used to be. +If in quiet contemplation of a cheerful ruddy blaze +He sees nothing there recalling all his happy yesterdays, +Then his mind is dead to fancy and his life is bleak and bare, +And he's doomed to walk the highways that are always thick with care. + +When the logs are dry as tinder and they crackle with the heat, +And the sparks, like merry children, come a-dancing round my feet, +In the cold, long nights of autumn I can sit before the blaze +And watch a panorama born of all my yesterdays. +I can leave the present burdens and that moment's bit of woe, +And claim once more the gladness of the bygone long ago. + +[Illustration: _"The Grate Fire"_ + +_From a drawing by_ W. T. BENDA.] + +There are no absent faces in the grate fire's merry throng; +No hands in death are folded, and no lips are stilled to song. +All the friends who were are living--like the sparks that fly about; +They come romping out to greet me with the same old merry shout, +Till it seems to me I'm playing once again on boyhood's stage, +Where there's no such thing as sorrow and there's no such thing as age. + +I can be the care-free schoolboy! I can play the lover, too! +I can walk through Maytime orchards with the old sweetheart I knew; +I can dream the glad dreams over, greet the old familiar friends +In a land where there's no parting and the laughter never ends. +All the gladness life has given from a grate fire I reclaim, +And I'm sorry for the fellow who can only see the flame. + + + + +THE KINDLY NEIGHBOR + + +I have a kindly neighbor, one who stands + Beside my gate and chats with me awhile, + Gives me the glory of his radiant smile + And comes at times to help with willing hands. +No station high or rank this man commands, + He, too, must trudge, as I, the long day's mile; + And yet, devoid of pomp or gaudy style, +He has a worth exceeding stocks or lands. + +To him I go when sorrow's at my door, + On him I lean when burdens come my way, +Together oft we talk our trials o'er + And there is warmth in each good-night we say. +A kindly neighbor! Wars and strife shall end +When man has made the man next door his friend. + + + + +THE TEARS EXPRESSIVE + + +Death crossed his threshold yesterday + And left the glad voice of his loved one dumb. + To him the living now will come +And cross his threshold in the self-same way +To clasp his hand and vainly try to say + Words that shall soothe the heart that's stricken numb. + +And I shall be among them in that place + So still and silent, where she used to sing-- + The glad, sweet spirit that has taken wing-- +Where shone the radiance of her lovely face, +And where she met him oft with fond embrace, + I shall step in to share his sorrowing. + +Beside the staircase that has known her hand + And in the hall her presence made complete, + The home her life endowed with memories sweet +Where everything has heard her sweet command +And seems to wear her beauty, I shall stand + Wondering just how to greet him when we meet. + +I dread the very silence of the place, + I dread our meeting and the time to speak-- + Speech seems so vain when sorrow's at the peak! +Yet though my words lack soothing power or grace, +Perhaps he'll catch their meaning in my face + And read the tears which glisten on my cheek. + + + + +THE JOYS WE MISS + + +There never comes a lonely day but what we miss the laughing ways +Of those who used to walk with us through all our happy yesterdays. +We seldom miss the earthly great--the famous men that life has known-- +But, as the years go racing by, we miss the friends we used to own. + +The chair wherein he used to sit recalls the kindly father true, +For, oh, so filled with fun he was, and, oh, so very much he knew! +And as we face the problems grave with which the years of life are filled, +We miss the hand which guided us and miss the voice forever stilled. + +We little guessed how much he did to smooth our pathway day by day, +How much of joy he brought to us, how much of care he brushed away; +But now that we must tread alone the thoroughfare of life, we find +How many burdens we were spared by him who was so brave and kind. + +[Illustration: _"The Joys We Miss"_ + +_From a painting by_ M. L. BOWER.] + +Death robs the living, not the dead--they sweetly sleep whose tasks + are done; +But we are weaker than before who still must live and labor on. +For when come care and grief to us, and heavy burdens bring us woe, +We miss the smiling, helpful friends on whom we leaned long years ago. + +We miss the happy, tender ways of those who brought us mirth and cheer; +We never gather round the hearth but what we wish our friends were near; +For peace is born of simple things--a kindly word, a good-night kiss, +The prattle of a babe, and love--these are the vanished joys we miss. + + + + +LITTLE FEET + + +There is no music quite so sweet +As patter of a baby's feet. +Who never hears along the hall +The sound of tiny feet that fall +Upon the floor so soft and low +As eagerly they come or go, +Has missed, no matter who he be, +Life's most inspiring symphony. + +There is a music of the spheres +Too fine to ring in mortal ears, +Yet not more delicate and sweet +Than pattering of baby feet; +Where'er I hear that pit-a-pat +Which falls upon the velvet mat, +Out of my dreamy nap I start +And hear the echo in my heart. + +'Tis difficult to put in words +The music of the summer birds, +Yet far more difficult a thing-- +A lyric for that pattering; +Here is a music telling me +Of golden joys that are to be; +Unheralded by horns and drums, +To me a regal caller comes. + +Now on my couch I lie and hear +A little toddler coming near, +Coming right boldly to my place +To pull my hair and pat my face, +Undaunted by my age or size, +Nor caring that I am not wise-- +A visitor devoid of sham +Who loves me just for what I am. + +This soft low music tells to me +In just a minute I shall be +Made captive by a thousand charms, +Held fast by chubby little arms, +For there is one upon the way +Who thinks the world was made for play. +Oh, where's the sound that's half so sweet +As pattering of baby feet? + + + + +JUST LIKE A MAN + + +This is the phrase they love to say: + "Just like a man!" +You can hear it wherever you chance to stray: + "Just like a man!" +The wife of the toiler, the queen of the king, +The bride with the shiny new wedding-ring +And the grandmothers, too, at our sex will fling, + "Just like a man!" + +Cranky and peevish at times we grow: + "Just like a man!" +Now and then boastful of what we know: + "Just like a man!" +Whatever our failings from day to day-- +Stingy, or giving our goods away-- +With a toss of her head, she is sure to say, + "Just like a man!" + +Unannounced strangers we bring to tea: + "Just like a man!" +Heedless of every propriety: + "Just like a man!" +Grumbling at money she spends for spats +And filmy dresses and gloves and hats, +Yet wanting her stylishly garbed, and that's + "Just like a man!" + +[Illustration: + +Unannounced strangers we bring to tea: + "Just like a man!" +Heedless of every propriety: + "Just like a man!"] + +[Illustration: + +Grumbling at money she spends for spats +And filmy dresses and gloves and hats, +Yet wanting her stylishly garbed, and that's + "Just like a man!" + +_"Just Like A Man"_ + +_From a charcoal drawing by_ W. T. BENDA.] + +Wanting attention from year to year: + "Just like a man!" +Seemingly helpless when she's not near: + "Just like a man!" +Troublesome often, and quick to demur, +Still remaining the boys we were, +Yet soothed and blest by the love of her: + "Just like a man!" + + + + +CLINCHING THE BOLT + + +It needed just an extra turn to make the bolt secure, +A few more minutes on the job and then the work was sure; +But he begrudged the extra turn, and when the task was through, +The man was back for more repairs in just a day or two. + +Two men there are in every place, and one is only fair, +The other gives the extra turn to every bolt that's there; +One man is slip-shod in his work and eager to be quit, +The other never leaves a task until he's sure of it. + +The difference 'twixt good and bad is not so very much, +A few more minutes at the task, an extra turn or touch, +A final test that all is right--and yet the men are few +Who seem to think it worth their while these extra things to do. + +The poor man knows as well as does the good man how to work, +But one takes pride in every task, the other likes to shirk; +With just as little as he can, one seeks his pay to earn, +The good man always gives the bolt that clinching, extra turn. + + + + +HIS PA + + +Some fellers' pas seem awful old, +An' talk like they was going to scold, +An' their hair's all gone, an' they never grin +Or holler an' shout when they come in. +They don't get out in the street an' play +The way mine does at the close of day. +It's just as funny as it can be, +But my pa doesn't seem old to me. + +He doesn't look old, an' he throws a ball, +Just like a boy, with the curves an' all, +An' he knows the kids by their first names, too, +An' says they're just like the boys he knew. +Some of the fellers are scared plumb stiff +When their fathers are near 'em an' act as if +They wuz doing wrong if they made a noise, +But my pa seems to be one of the boys. + +It's funny, but, somehow, I never can +Think of my pa as a grown-up man. +He doesn't frown an' he doesn't scold, +An' he doesn't act as though he wuz old. +He talks of the things I want to know, +Just like one of our gang, an' so, +Whenever we're out, it seems that he +Is more like a pal than a pa to me. + +[Illustration: _"His Pa"_ + +_From a painting by_ M. L. BOWER.] + + + + +EXAMPLE + + +Perhaps the victory shall not come to me, + Perhaps I shall not reach the goal I seek, + It may be at the last I shall be weak +And falter as the promised land I see; +Yet I must try for it and strive to be + All that a conqueror is. On to the peak, +Must be my call--this way lies victory! + Boy, take my hand and hear me when I speak. + +There is the goal. In honor make the fight. + I may not reach it but, my boy, you can. +Cling to your faith and work with all your might, + Some day the world shall hail you as a man. +And when at last shall come your happy day, +Enough for me that I have shown the way. + + + + +WINDING THE CLOCK + + +When I was but a little lad, my old Grandfather said +That none should wind the clock but he, and so, at time for bed, +He'd fumble for the curious key kept high upon the shelf +And set aside that little task entirely for himself. + +In time Grandfather passed away, and so that duty fell +Unto my Father, who performed the weekly custom well; +He held that clocks were not to be by careless persons wound, +And he alone should turn the key or move the hands around. + +I envied him that little task, and wished that I might be +The one to be entrusted with the turning of the key; +But year by year the clock was his exclusive bit of care +Until the day the angels came and smoothed his silver hair. + +To-day the task is mine to do, like those who've gone before +I am a jealous guardian of that round and glassy door, +And 'til at my chamber door God's messenger shall knock +To me alone shall be reserved the right to wind the clock. + + + + +THE NEED + + +We were settin' there an' smokin' of our pipes, discussin' things, +Like licker, votes for wimmin, an' the totterin' thrones o' kings, +When he ups an' strokes his whiskers with his hand an' says t' me: +"Changin' laws an' legislatures ain't, as fur as I can see, +Goin' to make this world much better, unless somehow we can +Find a way to make a better an' a finer sort o' man. + +"The trouble ain't with statutes or with systems--not at all; +It's with humans jus' like we air an' their petty ways an' small. +We could stop our writin' law-books an' our regulatin' rules +If a better sort of manhood was the product of our schools. +For the things that we air needin' isn't writin' from a pen +Or bigger guns to shoot with, but a bigger type of men. + +[Illustration: _"The Need"_ + +_From a painting by_ PRUETT CARTER.] + +"I reckon all these problems air jest ornery like the weeds. +They grow in soil that oughta nourish only decent deeds, +An' they waste our time an' fret us when, if we were thinkin' straight +An' livin' right, they wouldn't be so terrible and great. +A good horse needs no snaffle, an' a good man, I opine, +Doesn't need a law to check him or to force him into line. + +"If we ever start in teachin' to our children, year by year, +How to live with one another, there'll be less o' trouble here. +If we'd teach 'em how to neighbor an' to walk in honor's ways, +We could settle every problem which the mind o' man can raise. +What we're needin' isn't systems or some regulatin' plan, +But a bigger an' a finer an' a truer type o' man." + + + + +TEN-FINGERED MICE + + +When a cake is nicely frosted and it's put away for tea, +And it looks as trim and proper as a chocolate cake should be, +Would it puzzle you at evening as you brought it from the ledge +To find the chocolate missing from its smooth and shiny edge? + +As you viewed the cake in sorrow would you look around and say, +"Who's been nibbling in the pantry when he should have been at play?" +And if little eyes look guilty as they hungered for a slice, +Would you take Dad's explanation that it must have been the mice? + +Oh, I'm sorry for the household that can keep a frosted cake +Smooth and perfect through the daytime, for the hearts of them must ache-- +For it must be very lonely to be living in a house +Where the pantry's never ravaged by a glad ten-fingered mouse. + +Though I've traveled far past forty, I confess that I, myself, +Even now will nip a morsel from the good things on the shelf; +And I never blame the youngsters who discover chocolate cake +For the tiny little samples which exultantly they take. + + + + +THE THINGS +THEY MUSTN'T TOUCH + + +Been down to the art museum an' looked at a thousand things, +The bodies of ancient mummies an' the treasures of ancient kings, +An' some of the walls were lovely, but some of the things weren't much, +But all had a rail around 'em, an' all wore a sign "Don't touch." + +Now maybe an art museum needs guards and a warning sign +An' the hands of the folks should never paw over its treasures fine; +But I noticed the rooms were chilly with all the joys they hold, +An' in spite of the lovely pictures, I'd say that the place is cold. + +An' somehow I got to thinkin' of many a home I know +Which is kept like an art museum, an' merely a place for show; +They haven't railed off their treasures or posted up signs or such, +But all of the children know it--there's a lot that they mustn't touch. + +It's hands off the grand piano, keep out of the finest chair, +Stay out of the stylish parlor, don't run on the shiny stair; +You may look at the velvet curtains which hang in the stately hall, +But always and ever remember, they're not to be touched at all. + +"Don't touch!" for an art museum, is proper enough, I know, +But my children's feet shall scamper wherever they want to go, +And I want no rare possessions or a joy which has cost so much, +From which I must bar the children and tell them they "mustn't touch." + + + + +THE HARDER PART + + +It's mighty hard for Mother--I am busy through the day +And the tasks of every morning keep the gloomy thoughts away, +And I'm not forever meeting with a slipper or a gown +To remind me of our sorrow when I'm toiling in the town. +But with Mother it is different--there's no minute she is free +From the sight of things which tell her of the joy which used to be. + +She is brave and she is faithful, and we say we're reconciled, +But your hearts are always heavy once you've lost a little child; +And a man can face his sorrow in a manly sort of way, +For his grief must quickly leave him when he's busy through the day; +But the mother's lot is harder--she must learn to sing and smile +Though she's living in the presence of her sorrow all the while. + +Through the room where love once waited she must tip-toe day by day, +She must see through every window where the baby used to play, +And there's not a thing she touches, nor a task she finds to do, +But it sets her heart to aching and begins the hurt anew. +Oh, a man can turn from sorrow, for his mind is occupied, +But the mother's lot is harder--grief is always at her side. + + + + +YOUTH + + +If I had youth I'd bid the world to try me; + I'd answer every challenge to my will. +Though mountains stood in silence to defy me, + I'd try to make them subject to my skill. +I'd keep my dreams and follow where they led me; + I'd glory in the hazards which abound. +I'd eat the simple fare privations fed me, + And gladly make my couch upon the ground. + +If I had youth I'd ask no odds of distance, + Nor wish to tread the known and level ways. +I'd want to meet and master strong resistance, + And in a worth-while struggle spend my days. +I'd seek the task which calls for full endeavor; + I'd feel the thrill of battle in my veins. +I'd bear my burden gallantly, and never + Desert the hills to walk on common plains. + +If I had youth no thought of failure lurking + Beyond to-morrow's dawn should fright my soul. +Let failure strike--it still should find me working + With faith that I should some day reach my goal. +I'd dice with danger--aye!--and glory in it; + I'd make high stakes the purpose of my throw. +I'd risk for much, and should I fail to win it, + I would not even whimper at the blow. + +[Illustration: _"Youth"_ + +_From a drawing by_ W. T. BENDA.] + +If I had youth no chains of fear should bind me; + I'd brave the heights which older men must shun. +I'd leave the well-worn lanes of life behind me, + And seek to do what men have never done. +Rich prizes wait for those who do not waver; + The world needs men to battle for the truth. +It calls each hour for stronger hearts and braver. + This is the age for those who still have youth! + + + + +ACCOMPLISHED CARE + + +All things grow lovely in a little while, + The brush of memory paints a canvas fair; +The dead face through the ages wears a smile, + And glorious becomes accomplished care. + +There's nothing ugly that can live for long, + There's nothing constant in the realm of pain; +Right always comes to take the place of wrong, + Who suffers much shall find the greater gain. + +Life has a kindly way, despite its tears + And all the burdens which its children bear; +It crowns with beauty all the troubled years + And soothes the hurts and makes their memory fair. + +Be brave when days are bitter with despair, + Be true when you are made to suffer wrong; +Life's greatest joy is an accomplished care, + There's nothing ugly that can live for long. + + + + +BULB PLANTING TIME + + +Last night he said the dead were dead + And scoffed my faith to scorn; +I found him at a tulip bed + When I passed by at morn. + +"O ho!" said I, "the frost is near + And mist is on the hills, +And yet I find you planting here + Tulips and daffodils." + +"'Tis time to plant them now," he said, + "If they shall bloom in Spring"; +"But every bulb," said I, "seems dead, + And such an ugly thing." + +"The pulse of life I cannot feel, + The skin is dried and brown. +Now look!" a bulb beneath my heel + I crushed and trampled down. + +In anger then he said to me: + "You've killed a lovely thing; +A scarlet blossom that would be + Some morning in the Spring." + +"Last night a greater sin was thine," + To him I slowly said; +"You trampled on the dead of mine + And told me they are dead." + + + + +HIS OTHER CHANCE + + +He was down and out, and his pluck was gone, + And he said to me in a gloomy way: +"I've wasted my chances, one by one, + And I'm just no good, as the people say. +Nothing ahead, and my dreams all dust, + Though once there was something I might have been, +But I wasn't game, and I broke my trust, + And I wasn't straight and I wasn't clean." + +"You're pretty low down," says I to him, + "But nobody's holding you there, my friend. +Life is a stream where men sink or swim, + And the drifters come to a sorry end; +But there's two of you living and breathing still-- + The fellow you are, and he's tough to see, +And another chap, if you've got the will, + The man that you still have a chance to be." + +He laughed with scorn. "Is there two of me? + I thought I'd murdered the other one. +I once knew a chap that I hoped to be, + And he was decent, but now he's gone." +"Well," says I, "it may seem to you + That life has little of joy in store, +But there's always something you still can do, + And there's never a man but can try once more. + +[Illustration: _"His Other Chance"_ + +_From a drawing by_ W. T. BENDA.] + +"There are always two to the end of time-- + The fellow we are and the future man. +The Lord never meant you should cease to climb, + And you can get up if you think you can. +The fellow you are is a sorry sight, + But you needn't go drifting out to sea. +Get hold of yourself and travel right; + There's a fellow you've still got a chance to be." + + + + +THE FAMILY DOCTOR + + +I've tried the high-toned specialists, who doctor folks to-day; +I've heard the throat man whisper low "Come on now let us spray"; +I've sat in fancy offices and waited long my turn, +And paid for fifteen minutes what it took a week to earn; +But while these scientific men are kindly, one and all, +I miss the good old doctor that my mother used to call. + +The old-time family doctor! Oh, I am sorry that he's gone, +He ushered us into the world and knew us every one; +He didn't have to ask a lot of questions, for he knew +Our histories from birth and all the ailments we'd been through. +And though as children small we feared the medicines he'd send, +The old-time family doctor grew to be our dearest friend. + +No hour too late, no night too rough for him to heed our call; +He knew exactly where to hang his coat up in the hall; +He knew exactly where to go, which room upstairs to find +The patient he'd been called to see, and saying: "Never mind, +I'll run up there myself and see what's causing all the fuss." +It seems we grew to look and lean on him as one of us. + +He had a big and kindly heart, a fine and tender way, +And more than once I've wished that I could call him in to-day. +The specialists are clever men and busy men, I know, +And haven't time to doctor as they did long years ago; +But some day he may come again, the friend that we can call, +The good old family doctor who will love us one and all. + + + + +DENIAL + + +I'd like to give 'em all they ask--it hurts to have to answer, "No," +And say they cannot have the things they tell me they are wanting so; +Yet now and then they plead for what I know would not be good to give +Or what I can't afford to buy, and that's the hardest hour I live. + +They little know or understand how happy I would be to grant +Their every wish, yet there are times it isn't wise, or else I can't. +And sometimes, too, I can't explain the reason when they question why +Their pleadings for some passing joy it is my duty to deny. + +I only know I'd like to see them smile forever on life's way; +I would not have them shed one tear or ever meet a troubled day. +And I would be content with life and gladly face each dreary task, +If I could always give to them the little treasures that they ask. + +[Illustration: _"Denial"_ + +_From a painting by_ F. C. YOHN.] + +Sometimes we pray to God above and ask for joys that are denied, +And when He seems to scorn our plea, in bitterness we turn aside. +And yet the Father of us all, Who sees and knows just what is best, +May wish, as often here we wish, that He could grant what we request. + + + + +THE WORKMAN'S DREAM + + +To-day it's dirt and dust and steam, + To-morrow it will be the same, +And through it all the soul must dream + And try to play a manly game; +Dirt, dust and steam and harsh commands, + Yet many a soft hand passes by +And only thinks he understands + The purpose of my task and why. + +I've seen men shudder just to see + Me standing at this lathe of mine, +And knew somehow they pitied me, + But I have never made a whine; +For out of all this dirt and dust + And clang and clamor day by day, +Beyond toil's everlasting "must," + I see my little ones at play. + +The hissing steam would drive me mad + If hissing steam was all I heard; +But there's a boy who calls me dad + Who daily keeps my courage spurred; +And there's a little girl who waits + Each night for all that I may bring, +And I'm the guardian of their fates, + Which makes this job a wholesome thing. + +Beyond the dust and dirt and steam + I see a college where he'll go; +And when I shall fulfill my dream, + More than his father he will know; +And she shall be a woman fair, + Fit for the world to love and trust-- +I'll give my land a glorious pair + Out of this place of dirt and dust. + + + + +THE HOMELY MAN + + +Looks as though a cyclone hit him-- +Can't buy clothes that seem to fit him; +An' his cheeks are rough like leather, +Made for standin' any weather. +Outwards he wuz fashioned plainly, +Loose o' joint an' blamed ungainly, +But I'd give a lot if I'd +Been prepared so fine inside. + +Best thing I can tell you of him +Is the way the children love him. +Now an' then I get to thinkin' +He is much like old Abe Lincoln-- +Homely like a gargoyle graven, +An' looks worse when he's unshaven; +But I'd take his ugly phiz +Jes' to have a heart like his. + +I ain't over-sentimental, +But old Blake is so blamed gentle +An' so thoughtful-like of others +He reminds us of our mothers. +Rough roads he is always smoothin', +An' his way is, oh, so soothin' +That he takes away the sting +When your heart is sorrowing. + +[Illustration: _"The Homely Man"_ + +_From a painting by_ M. L. BOWER.] + +Children gather round about him +Like they can't get on without him. +An' the old depend upon him, +Pilin' all their burdens on him, +Like as though the thing that grieves 'em +Has been lifted when he leaves 'em. +Homely? That can't be denied. +But he's glorious inside. + + + + +UNCHANGEABLE MOTHER + + +Mothers never change, I guess, +In their tender thoughtfulness. +Makes no difference that you grow +Up to forty years or so, +Once you cough, you'll find that she +Sees you as you used to be, +An' she wants to tell to you +All the things that you must do. + +Just show symptoms of a cold, +She'll forget that you've grown old. +Though there's silver in your hair, +Still you need a mother's care, +An' she'll ask you things like these: +"You still wearing b. v. d.'s? +Summer days have long since gone, +You should have your flannels on." + +Grown and married an' maybe +Father of a family, +But to mother you are still +Just her boy when you are ill; +Just the lad that used to need +Plasters made of mustard seed; +An' she thinks she has to see +That you get your flaxseed tea. + +Mothers never change, I guess, +In their tender thoughtfulness. +All her gentle long life through +She is bent on nursing you; +An' although you may be grown, +She still claims you for her own, +An' to her you'll always be +Just a youngster at her knee. + + + + +LIFE + + +Life is a jest; + Take the delight of it. +Laughter is best; + Sing through the night of it. +Swiftly the tear + And the hurt and the ache of it +Find us down here; + Life must be what we make of it. + +Life is a song; + Let us dance to the thrill of it. +Grief's hours are long, + And cold is the chill of it. +Joy is man's need; + Let us smile for the sake of it. +This be our creed: + Life must be what we make of it. + +Life is a soul; + The virtue and vice of it. +Strife for a goal, + And man's strength is the price of it. +Your life and mine, + The bare bread and the cake of it, +End in this line: + Life must be what we make of it. + +[Illustration: _"Life"_ + +_From a charcoal drawing by_ W. T. BENDA.] + + + + +SUCCESS + + +This I would claim for my success--not fame nor gold, + Nor the throng's changing cheers from day to day, + Not always ease and fortune's glad display, +Though all of these are pleasant joys to hold; +But I would like to have my story told + By smiling friends with whom I've shared the way, +Who, thinking of me, nod their heads and say: +"His heart was warm when other hearts were cold. + +"None turned to him for aid and found it not, + His eyes were never blind to man's distress, +Youth and old age he lived, nor once forgot + The anguish and the ache of loneliness; +His name was free from stain or shameful blot +And in his friendship men found happiness." + + + + +THE LONELY OLD FELLOW + + +The roses are bedded for winter, the tulips are planted for spring; +The robins and martins have left us; there are only the sparrows to sing. +The garden seems solemnly silent, awaiting its blankets of snow, +And I feel like a lonely old fellow with nowhere to turn or to go. + +All summer I've hovered about them, all summer they've nodded at me; +I've wandered and waited among them the first pink of blossom to see; +I've known them and loved and caressed them, and now all their splendor + has fled, +And the harsh winds of winter all tell me the friends of my garden are + dead. + +I'm a lonely old fellow, that's certain. All winter with nothing to do +But sit by the window recalling the days when my skies were all blue; +But my heart is not given to sorrow and never my lips shall complain, +For winter shall pass and the sunshine shall give me my roses again. + +And so for the friends that have vanished, the friends that they tell + me are dead, +Who have traveled the road to God's Acres and sleep where the willows + are spread; +They have left me a lonely old fellow to sit here and dream by the pane, +But I know, like the friends of my garden, we shall all meet together + again. + + + + +SOMEBODY ELSE + + +Somebody wants a new bonnet to wear; + Somebody wants a new dress; +Somebody needs a new bow for her hair, + And never the wanting grows less. +Oh, this is the reason I labor each day + And this is the joy of my tasks: +That deep in the envelope holding my pay + Is something that somebody asks. + +I could go begging for water and bread + And travel the highways of ease, +But somebody wants a roof over his head + And stockings to cover his knees. +I could go shirking the duties of life + And laugh when necessity pleads, +But rather I stand to the toil and the strife + To furnish what somebody needs. + +Somebody wants what I've strength to supply, + And somebody's waiting for me +To come home to-night with money to buy + Her bread and her cake and her tea. +And as I am strong so her laughter will ring, + And as I am true she will smile; +It's the somebody else of the toiler or king + That makes all the struggle worth while. + +[Illustration: _"Somebody Else"_ + +_From a charcoal drawing by_ M. L. BOWER.] + +Somebody needs all the courage I own, + And somebody's trust is in me; +For never a man who can go it alone, + Whatever his station may be. +So I stand to my task and I stand to my care, + And struggle to come to success, +For the ribbons to tie up somebody's hair, + And my somebody's pretty new dress. + + + + +EFFORT + + +He brought me his report card from the teacher and he said +He wasn't very proud of it and sadly bowed his head. +He was excellent in reading, but arithmetic, was fair, +And I noticed there were several "unsatisfactorys" there; +But one little bit of credit which was given brought me joy-- +He was "excellent in effort," and I fairly hugged the boy. + +"Oh, it doesn't make much difference what is written on your card," +I told that little fellow, "if you're only trying hard. +The 'very goods' and 'excellents' are fine, I must agree, +But the effort you are making means a whole lot more to me; +And the thing that's most important when this card is put aside +Is to know, in spite of failure, that to do your best you've tried. + +"Just keep excellent in effort--all the rest will come to you. +There isn't any problem but some day you'll learn to do, +And at last, when you grow older, you will come to understand +That by hard and patient toiling men have risen to command +And some day you will discover when a greater goal's at stake +That better far than brilliance is the effort you will make." + + + + +LIVING + + +The miser thinks he's living when he's hoarding up his gold; +The soldier calls it living when he's doing something bold; +The sailor thinks it living to be tossed upon the sea, +And upon this very subject no two men of us agree. +But I hold to the opinion, as I walk my way along, +That living's made of laughter and good-fellowship and song. + +I wouldn't call it living to be always seeking gold, +To bank all the present gladness for the days when I'll be old. +I wouldn't call it living to spend all my strength for fame, +And forego the many pleasures which to-day are mine to claim. +I wouldn't for the splendor of the world set out to roam, +And forsake my laughing children and the peace I know at home. + +[Illustration: _"Living"_ + +_From a painting by_ FRANK X. LEYENDECKER.] + +Oh, the thing that I call living isn't gold or fame at all! +It's fellowship and sunshine, and it's roses by the wall. +It's evenings glad with music and a hearth-fire that's ablaze, +And the joys which come to mortals in a thousand different ways. +It is laughter and contentment and the struggle for a goal; +It is everything that's needful in the shaping of a soul. + + + + +A WARM HOUSE +AND A RUDDY FIRE + + +A warm house and a ruddy fire, +To what more can man aspire? +Eyes that shine with love aglow, +Is there more for man to know? + +Whether home be rich or poor, +If contentment mark the door +He who finds it good to live +Has the best that life can give. + +This the end of mortal strife! +Peace at night to sweeten life, +Rest when mind and body tire, +At contentment's ruddy fire. + +Rooms where merry songs are sung, +Happy old and glorious young; +These, if perfect peace be known, +Both the rich and poor must own. + +A warm house and a ruddy fire, +These the goals of all desire, +These the dream of every man +Since God spoke and life began. + + + + +THE ONE IN TEN + + +Nine passed him by with a hasty look, + Each bent on his eager way; +One glance at him was the most they took, + "Somebody stuck," said they; +But it never occurred to the nine to heed +A stranger's plight and a stranger's need. + +The tenth man looked at the stranded car, + And he promptly stopped his own. +"Let's see if I know what your troubles are," + Said he in a cheerful tone; +"Just stuck in the mire. Here's a cable stout, +Hitch onto my bus and I'll pull you out." + +"A thousand thanks," said the stranger then, + "For the debt that I owe you; +I've counted them all and you're one in ten + Such a kindly deed to do." +And the tenth man smiled and he answered then, +"Make sure that you'll be the one in ten." + +Are you one of the nine who pass men by + In this hasty life we live? +Do you refuse with a downcast eye + The help which you could give? +Or are you the one in ten whose creed +Is always to stop for the man in need? + + + + +TO A YOUNG MAN + + +The great were once as you. +They whom men magnify to-day +Once groped and blundered on life's way, +Were fearful of themselves, and thought +By magic was men's greatness wrought. +They feared to try what they could do; +Yet Fame hath crowned with her success +The selfsame gifts that you possess. + +The great were young as you, +Dreaming the very dreams you hold, +Longing yet fearing to be bold, +Doubting that they themselves possessed +The strength and skill for every test, +Uncertain of the truths they knew, +Not sure that they could stand to fate +With all the courage of the great. + +Then came a day when they +Their first bold venture made, +Scorning to cry for aid. +They dared to stand to fight alone, +Took up the gauntlet life had thrown, +Charged full-front to the fray, +Mastered their fear of self, and then, +Learned that our great men are but men. + +[Illustration: _"To A Young Man"_ + +_From a charcoal drawing by_ W. T. BENDA.] + +Oh, youth, go forth and do! +You, too, to fame may rise; +You can be strong and wise. +Stand up to life and play the man-- +You can if you'll but think you can; +The great were once as you. +You envy them their proud success? +'Twas won with gifts that you possess. + + + + +AFRAID OF HIS DAD + + +Bill Jones, who goes to school with me, +Is the saddest boy I ever see. +He's just so 'fraid he runs away +When all of us fellows want to play, +An' says he dassent stay about +Coz if his father found it out +He'd wallop him. An' he can't go +With us to see a picture show +On Saturdays, an' it's too bad, +But he's afraid to ask his dad. + +When he gets his report card, he +Is just as scared as scared can be, +An' once I saw him when he cried +Becoz although he'd tried an' tried +His best, the teacher didn't care +An' only marked his spelling fair, +An' he told me there'd be a fight +When his dad saw his card that night. +It seems to me it's awful bad +To be so frightened of your dad. + +My Dad ain't that way--I can go +An' tell him everything I know, +An' ask him things, an' when he comes +Back home at night he says we're chums; +An' we go out an' take a walk, +An' all the time he lets me talk. +I ain't scared to tell him what +I've done to-day that I should not; +When I get home I'm always glad +To stay around an' play with Dad. + +Bill Jones, he says, he wishes he +Could have a father just like me, +But his dad hasn't time to play, +An' so he chases him away +An' scolds him when he makes a noise +An' licks him if he breaks his toys. +Sometimes Bill says he's got to lie +Or else get whipped, an' that is why +It seems to me it's awful bad +To be so frightened of your dad. + + + + +SERVICE + + +I have no wealth of gold to give away, + But I can pledge to worthy causes these: + I'll give my strength, my days and hours of ease, +My finest thought and courage when I may, +And take some deed accomplished for my pay. + I cannot offer much in silver fees, +But I can serve when richer persons play, + And with my presence fill some vacancies. + +There are some things beyond the gift of gold, + A richer treasure's needed now and then; +Some joys life needs which are not bought and sold-- + The high occasion often calls for men. +Some for release from service give their pelf, +But he gives most who freely gives himself. + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of All That Matters, by Edgar A. 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