January 3, 2008
“I’m never alone in the garden,” he said. ” I’m
never alone with the flowers.
It seems like I’m meeting the wonderful dead
out here with these blossoms of ours.
An’ there’s never a bush or a plant or a tree, but
somebody loved it of old.
An’ the souls of the angels come talkin’ to me
through the petals of crimson an’ gold.
” The lilacs in spring bring the mother once more,
an’ she lives in the midsummer rose.
She smiles in the peony clump at the door, an’
sings when the four o’clocks close.
She loved every blossom God gave us to own, an’
daily she gave it her care.
So never I walk in the garden alone, for I feel
that the mother’s still there.
” These are the pinks that a baby once kissed,
still spicy with fragrance an’ fair.
The years have been long since her laughter I’ve
missed, but her spirit is hovering there.
The roses that ramble and twine on the wall were
planted by one that was kind
An’ I’m sure as I stand here an’ gaze on them all,
that his soul has still lingered behind.
“I’m never alone in the garden,” he said, ” I
have many to talk with an’ see,
For never a flower comes to bloom in its bed, but
it brings back a loved one to me.
An’ I fancy whenever I’m bendin’ above these
blossoms of crimson an’ gold,
That I’m seein’ an’ hearin’ the ones that I love,
who lived in the glad days of old.”
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January 3, 2008
When I was but a little lad, not more than two or
three,
I noticed in a general way my dad was proud of
me.
He liked the little ways I had, the simple things
I said;
Sometimes he gave me words of praise, sometimes
he stroked my head ;
And when I’d done a thing worth while, the
thought that made me glad
Was always that I’d done my best, and that
would please my dad.
I can look back to-day and see how proud he
used to be
When I’d come home from school and say they’d
recommended me.
I didn’t understand it then, for school boys never
do,
But in a vague and general way it seems to me
I knew
That father took great pride in me, and wanted
me to shine,
And that it meant a lot to him when I’d done
something fine.
Then one day out of school I went, amid the
great world’s hum,
An office boy, and father watched each night to
see me come.
And I recall how proud he was of me that
wondrous day
When I could tell him that, unasked, the firm had
raised my pay.
I still can feel that hug he gave, I understand the
joy
It meant to him to learn that men were trusting
in his boy.
I wonder will it please my dad? How oft the
thought occurs
When I am stumbling on the paths, beset with
briars and burrs !
He isn’t here to see me now, alone my race I
run,
And yet some day I’ll go to him and tell him all
I’ve done.
And oh I pray that when we meet beyond life’s
stormy sea
That he may claim the old-time joy of being
proud of me.
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January 3, 2008
I do not ask a store of wealth,
Nor special gift of power;
I hope always for strength and health
To brave each troubled hour.
But life would be distinctly good,
However low my place is,
Had I a memory that could
Remember names and faces.
I am not troubled by the fact
That common skill is mine ;
I care not that my life has lacked
The glory of the fine.
But, oh, when someone speaks to me,
My cheeks grow red with shame
Because I’m sure that he must see
That I hav.e lost his name.
Embarrasment, where’er I go,
Pursues me night and day ;
I hear some good friend’s glad ” Hello,”
And stop a word to say.
His voice melodiously may ring,
But that’s all lost on me,
For all the time I’m wondering
Whoever can he be.
I envy no man’s talent rare
Save his who can repeat
The names of men, no matter where
It is they chance to meet.
For he escapes the bitter blow,
The sorrow and regret,
Of greeting friends he ought to know
As though they’d never met.
I do not ask a store of gold,
High station here, or fame;
I have no burning wish to hold
The popular acclaim;
Life’s lanes I’d gladly journey through,
Nor mind the stony places,
Could I but do as others do
And know men’s names and faces !
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January 3, 2008
They come to my room at the break of the day,
With their faces all smiles and their minds full
of play;
They come on their tip-toes and silentiy creep
To the edge of the bed where I’m lying asleep,
And then at a signal, on which they agree,
With a shout of delight they jump right onto me.
They lift up my eyelids and tickle my nose,
And scratch at my cheeks with their little pink
toes;
And sometimes to give them a laugh and a scare
I snap and I growl like a cinnamon bear ;
Then over I roll, and with three kids astride
I gallop away on their feather-bed ride.
I’ve thought it all over. Man’s biggest mistake
Is in wanting to sleep when his babes are awake ;
When they come to his room for that first bit of
fun
He should make up his mind that his sleeping is
done;
He should share in the laughter they bring to his
side
And start off the day with that feather-bed ride.
Oh they’re fun at their breakfast and fun at their
lunch ;
Any hour of the day they’re a glorious bunch !
When they’re togged up for Sundays they’re cer
tainly fine,
And I’m glad in my heart I can call them all mine,
But I think that the time that I like them the best
Is that hour in the morning before they are
dressed.
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January 3, 2008
One day the doctor came because my throat was
feeling awful sore,
And when he looked inside to see he said : ” It’s
like it was before;
It’s tonserlitis, sure enough. You’d better tell
her Pa to-day
To make his mind up now to have that little
party right away.”
I’d heard him talk that way before when Bud
was sick, and so I knew
That what they did to him that time, to me they
planned to come and do.
An’ when my Pa came home that night Ma said :
” She can’t grow strong and stout
Until the doctor comes an’ takes her addynoids
an’ tonsils out.”
An’ then Pa took me on his knee and kissed me
solemn-like an’ grave,
An’ said he guessed it was the best, an’ then he
asked me to be brave.
Ma said : ” Don’t look at her like that, it’s
nothing to be scared about ” ;
An Pa said : ” True, but still I wish she needn’t
have her tonsils out.”
Next morning when I woke, Ma said I couldn’t
have my breakfast then,
Because the doctors and the nurse had said they
would be here by ten.
When they got here the doctor smiled an’ gave
me some perfume to smell,
An’ told me not to cry at all, coz pretty soon
I would be well.
When I woke up Ma smiled an’ said : ” It’s all
right now ” ; but in my head
It seemed like wheels were buzzing round and
everywhere I looked was red.
An’ I can’t eat hard cookies yet, nor use my
voice at all to shout,
But Pa an’ Ma seem awful glad that I have had
my tonsils out.
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January 3, 2008
Sometimes I’m almost glad to hear when I get
home that they’ve been bad;
And though I try to look severe, within my heart
I’m really glad
When mother sadly tells to me the list of awful
things they’ve done,
Because when they come tearfully, forgiving
them is so much fun.
I like to have them all alone, with no one near
to hear or see,
Then as their little faults they own, I like to take
them on my knee
And talk it over and pretend the whipping soon
must be begun;
And then to kiss them at the end forgiving
them is so much fun.
Within the world there’s no such charm as chil
dren penitent and sad,
Who put two soft and chubby arms around your
neck, when they’ve been bad.
And as you view their trembling lips, away your
temper starts to run.
And from your mind all anger slips forgiving
them is so much fun.
If there were nothing to forgive I wonder if
we’d love them so;
If they were wise enough to live as grown-ups
do, and always go
Along the pleasant path of right, with ne’er a
fault from sun to sun,
A lot of joys we’d miss at night forgiving
them is so much fun.
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January 3, 2008
The good old-fashioned mothers and the good
old-fashioned dads,
With their good old-fashioned lassies and their
good old-fashioned lads,
Still walk the lanes of loving in their simple,
tender ways,
As they used to do back yonder in the good old-
fashioned days.
They dwell in every city and they live in every
town,
Contented ly arid happy and not hungry for
renown ;
On every street you’ll find ‘em in their simple
garments clad,
The good old-fashioned mother and the good
old-fashioned dad.
There are some who sigh for riches, there are
some who yearn for fame,
And a few misguided people who no longer blush
at shame;
But the world is full of mothers, and the world is
full of dads,
Who are making sacrifices for their little girls
and lads.
They are growing old together, arm in arm they
walk along,
And their hearts with love are beating and their
voices sweet with song;
They still share their disappointments and they
share their pleasures, too,
And whatever be their fortune, to each other
they are true.
They are watching at the bedside of a baby pale
and white,
And they kneel and pray together for the care
of God at night;
They are romping with their children in the fields
of clover sweet,
And devotedly they guard them from the perils
of the street.
They are here in countless numbers, just as they
have always been,
And their glory is untainted by the selfish and
the mean.
And I’d hate to still be living, it would dismal be
and sad,
If we’d no old-fashioned mother and we’d no
old-fashioned dad.
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January 3, 2008
The golden dreamboat’s ready, all her silken sails
are spread,
And the breeze is gently blowing to the fairy
port of Bed,
And the fairy’s captain’s waiting while the busy
sandman flies
With the. silver dust of slumber, closing every
baby’s eyes.
Oh, the night is rich w.ith moonlight and the sea
is calm with peace,
And the angels fly to guard you and their watch
shall never cease,
And the fairies there await y^u ; they have splen
did dreams to spin ;
You shall hear them gayly singing as the dream-
boat’s putting in.
Like the ripple of the water does the dreamboat’s
whistle blow,
Only baby ears can catch it when it comes the
time to go,
Only little ones may journey on so wonderful a
ship,
And go drifting off to slumber with no care to
mar the trip.
Oh, the little eyes are heavy but the little soul is
light;
It shall never know a sorrow or a terror through
the night.
And at last when dawn is breaking and the
dreamboat’s trip is o’er,
You shall wake to find the mother smiling over
you once more.
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January 3, 2008
Pete bristles when the doorbell rings.
Last night he didn’t act the same.
Dogs have a way of knowin’ things,
An’ when the dreaded cable came,
He looked at mother an’ he whined
His soft, low sign of somethin’ wrong,
As though he knew that we should find
The news that we had feared so long.
He’s followed me about the place
An’ hasn’t left my heels to-day;
He’s rubbed his nose against my face
As if to kiss my grief away.
There on his plate beside the door
You’ll see untouched his mornin’ meal.
I never understood before
That dogs share every hurt you feel.
We’ve got the pride o’ service fine
As consolation for the blow;
We know by many a written line
He went the way he wished to go.
We know that God an’ Country found
Our boy a servant brave an’ true
But Pete must sadly walk around
An’ miss the master that he knew.
The mother’s bearing up as well
As such a noble mother would;
The hurt I feel I needn’t tell
I guess by all it’s understood.
But Pete his dog that used to wait
Each night to hear his cheery call,
An’ romped about him at the gate,
Has felt the blow the worst of all.
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January 3, 2008
I have no wish, my little lad,
To climb the towering heights of fame.
I am content to be your dad
And share with you each pleasant game.
I am content to hold your hand
And walk along life’s path with you,
And talk of things we understand
The birds and trees and skies of blue.
Though some may seek the smiles of kings,
For me your laughter’s joy enough ;
I have no wish to claim the things
Which lure men into pathways rough.
I’m happiest when you and I,
Unmindful of life’s bitter cares,
Together watch the clouds drift by,
Or follow boyhood’s thoroughfares.
I crave no more of life than this :
Continuance of such a trust ;
Your smile, whate’er the morning is,
Until my clay returns to dust.
If but this comradeship may last
Until I end my earthly task
Your hand and mine by love held fast
Fame has no charm for which I’d ask.
I would not trade one day with you
To wear the purple robes of power,
Nor drop your hand from mine to do
Some great deed in a selfish hour.
For you have brought me joy serene
And made my soul supremely glad.
In life rewarded I have been;
‘Twas all worth while to be your dad.
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