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

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

"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.

"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.

"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?

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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!"

"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.

"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.

"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.

"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."