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Pleasing Dad
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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