_The Passing Throng_
From newsboy to the millionaire
The passing throng goes by each day;
The old man with his weight of care,
The maiden in her colors gay,
The mother with her babe in arms,
The dreamer and the man of might,
Grief's cruel scars and laughter's charms
Pass by the window, day and night.
Now slowly rides a corpse to find
The grave and its unbroken sleep,
And in the carriages behind
A score of sorrowing loved ones weep;
But scarcely has the hearse passed by
Upon its journey to the tomb,
When, wreathed with smiles of love, we spy
The faces of a bride and groom.
We cannot understand it all,
We cannot know why this is so;
From dawn until night's curtains fall,
We see the people come and go.
Hope lights the eyes of youth to-day,
To-morrow care has left them dim;
Once this man proudly walked his way,
But now defeat has broken him.
Could we but watch, as God must do,
We'd see the struggling youth arise,
We'd see him brave his dangers through,
And reach his goal and claim the prize.
And we might judge with gentler sight
The broken lives, which come and go,
And better choose 'twixt wrong and right--
If we could know what God must know.
_Wife o' Mine_
Wife o' Mine, day after day
Cheering me along the way;
Patient, tender, smiling, true,
Always ready to renew
Faltering courage and to share
All the day may bring of care;
Dreaming dreams wherein you see
Brighter years that are to be;
Calling paltry pleasures fine--
That's you always, Wife o' Mine.
Wife o' Mine, we've shed some tears
With the passing of the years,
Mourned beside our lovely dead;
But somehow you've always said
You and I could bear the blow
Knowing God had willed it so;
And you've smiled to show to me
Just how brave you meant to be,
Smiled to keep my faith in line--
That's you, always, Wife o' Mine.
Wife o' Mine, long years ago
Once I promised you would know
Luxuries and costly things,
Gowns of silk and jeweled rings,
And you laughed as though you knew
Dreams like that could not come true;
Now perhaps they never will,
But I see you laughing still,
Welcoming me with eyes that shine--
That's you always, Wife o' Mine.
_Let's Be Brave_
Let's be brave when the laughter dies
And the tears come into our troubled eyes,
Let's cling to the faith and the old belief
When the skies grow gray with the clouds of grief,
Let's bear the sorrow and hurt and pain
And wait till the laughter comes again.
Let's be brave when the trials come
And our hearts are sad and our lips are dumb,
Let's strengthen ourselves in the times of test
By whispering softly that God knows best;
Let us still believe, though we cannot know,
We shall learn sometime it is better so.
Let's be brave when the joy departs
Till peace shall come to our troubled hearts,
For the tears must fall and the rain come down
And each brow be pressed to the thorny crown;
Yet after the dark shall the sun arise,
So let's be brave when the laughter dies.
_Boy or Girl?_
Some folks pray for a boy, and some
For a golden-haired little girl to come.
Some claim to think there is more of joy
Wrapped up in the smile of a little boy,
While others pretend that the silky curls
And plump, pink cheeks of the little girls
Bring more of bliss to the old home place
Than a small boy's queer little freckled face.
Now which is better, I couldn't say
If the Lord should ask me to choose to-day;
If He should put in a call for me
And say: "Now what shall your order be,
A boy or girl? I have both in store--
Which of the two are you waiting for?"
I'd say with one of my broadest grins:
"Send either one, if it can't be twins."
I've heard it said, to some people's shame,
They cried with grief when a small boy came,
For they wanted a girl. And some folks I know
Who wanted a boy, just took on so
When a girl was sent. But it seems to me
That mothers and fathers should happy be
To think, when the Stork has come and gone,
That the Lord would trust them with either one.
Boy or girl? There can be no choice;
There's something lovely in either voice.
And all that I ask of the Lord to do
Is to see that the mother comes safely through
And guard the baby and have it well,
With a perfect form and a healthy yell,
And a pair of eyes and a shock of hair.
Then, boy or girl--and its dad won't care.
_They're Waiting Over There_
They're waiting for us over there;
The young, the beautiful and fair
Who left us, oh, so long ago,
Lonely and hurt on earth below,
Are waiting bravely, never fear,
Until our faces shall appear.
Then, when our journey here is done,
And we set out to follow on
Through the great, heavy mantled door
Which leads to rest forevermore,
They will be there to laugh away
The loneliness we feel to-day.
They'll welcome us with wondrous grace,
And show us all about the place;
They'll take us gently by the hand
And guide us through that radiant land;
They'll tell us all they've learned and seen
Through the long absence that has been.
We'll meet the friends who have been kind
To them the while we stayed behind--
Angels who long have dwelt above,
Who welcomed them with arms of love,
And sheltered them the long years through,
Just as we'd prayed for them to do.
Though now you mourn, who stay behind,
How sad 'twould be to leave, and find
Upon that distant other shore
No loved one who had gone before--
The gates of Heaven to enter through
With no one there to welcome you.
As now, when some long journey ends
And we're received by smiling friends
Who've watched and waited for our train,
So shall they welcome us again;
The young, the beautiful and fair
Will all be waiting for us there.
_Visitors_
We've had a lot of visitors, it seems, for weeks
an' weeks,
And Pa is gettin' all run down. Ma says that
when he speaks
He isn't civil any more. He mopes around the place
And always seems to wear a look of sadness on
his face.
And yesterday he said to Ma when she began to fuss:
"I wonder when they're going to quit an' leave the
home to us.
"It's nice to have your people come, but some of
them should go;
Instead of that they're sticking here like bull dogs
at a show.
'The more the merrier,' they shout, as other ones drop in.
I'm getting so I cannot stand to see your cousins grin
And, what is more, I'm getting tired of driving
folks about
And mighty tired of visitors who must be taken out.
"Night after night when I've come home I've hauled
them near and far,
You'd think I was the driver of a town sight-seeing car.
I've hauled them up to factories and monuments and parks,
Museums and aquariums; I've shown 'em seals and sharks
And bears and wolves and elephants; and now I want to quit.
I know they'd do the same for me, but I am sick of it.
"I wouldn't say a word at all about your folks, I know
They're just as nice as they can be, but still I wish
they'd go.
I'm tired of all the buzz and talk, the tales of those
who've died;
I'm tired of seeing all our chairs forever occupied."
"And I am tired myself," said Ma, "as tired as I can be,
You're only on the job at night, but it's all day
long for me."
_When Father Broke His Arm_
Pa never gets a story straight.
He's always mixed about the date,
Or where it was, or what occurred,
Or who related what he heard;
And every time he starts to tell
Some little story he knows well,
Ma says: "No, Pa, as I recall,
That isn't how it was at all."
"Remember when I broke my arm,"
Says Pa, "when we were on the farm
And I went out that slippery morn
A few days after Bud was born,
To get some wood"--and Ma says then:
"Oh, Pa, don't tell that tale again!
And anyhow, I know right well
Bud wasn't born the day you fell."
"'Twas months before he came," says Ma.
"'Twas after he was born," says Pa;
"I rather think I ought to know
Just when it was I suffered so."
"Maybe you ought," says Ma, "but still,
I saw you tumble down the hill,
And it was March with snow drifts high--
Bud wasn't born till next July."
"I'd walk him round the floor," says Pa.
"You're all mixed up again," says Ma.
"We'll ask Aunt Lizzie, she was there,
She'd come to help." Says Ma: "I swear
You're just as crazy as a loon,
Aunt Lizzie didn't come till June.
To argue on is most absurd,
Bud wasn't born when that occurred."
I wish I knew just what is what
Or whether I was born or not,
But I'll just have to sit and wait
Until Pa gets his story straight;
And I have never heard at all
Just how it was he chanced to fall,
For Pa and Ma can't yet agree
Which one came first--the fall or me.
_The Spirit of the Home_
Dishes to wash and clothes to mend,
And always another meal to plan,
Never the tasks of a mother end
And oh, so early her day began!
Floors to sweep and the pies to bake,
And chairs to dust and the beds to make.
Oh, the home is fair when you come at night
And the meal is good and the children gay,
And the kettle sings in its glad delight
And the mother smiles in her gentle way;
So great her love that you seldom see
Or catch a hint of the drudgery.
Home, you say, when the day is done,
Home to comfort and peace and rest;
Home, where the children romp and run--
There is the place that you love the best!
Yet what would the home be like if you
Had all of its endless tasks to do?
Would it be home if she were not there,
Brave and gentle and fond and true?
Could you so fragrant a meal prepare?
Could you the numberless duties do?
What were the home that you love so much,
Lacking her presence and gracious touch?
She is the spirit of all that's fair;
She is the home that you think you build;
She is the beauty you dream of there;
She is the laughter with which it's filled--
She, with her love and her gentle smile,
Is all that maketh the home worth while.
_If I Were Sending My Boy Afar_
If I were sending my boy afar
To live and labor where strangers are,
I should hold him close till the time to go,
Telling him things which he ought to know;
I should whisper counsel and caution wise,
Hinting of dangers which might arise,
And tell him the things I have learned from life,
Of its bitter pain and its cruel strife
And the sore temptations which men beset,
And then add this: "Boy, don't forget
When your strength gives out and your hope grows dim,
Your father will help if you'll come to him."
If I were sending a boy away,
I should hold him close on the parting day
And give him my trust. Through thick and thin
I should tell him I counted on him to win,
To keep his word at whatever cost,
To play the man though his fight be lost.
But beyond all that I should whisper low:
"If trouble comes, let your father know;
Come to him, son, as you used to do
When you were little--he'll see you through.
I am trusting you in a distant land.
You trust your father to understand.
"Trust me wherever you chance to be,
Know there is nothing to hide from me,
Tell me it all--your tale of woe,
The sting of failure that hurts you so.
Never, whatever your plight may be,
Think it something to hide from me;
Come to me first in your hour of need,
Come though you know that my heart will bleed!
Boy, when the shadows of trouble fall,
Come to your father first of all."
_The White Oak_
The white oak keeps its leaves till spring when other
trees are bare,
And who will take the time to look, will find the
young bud there;
The young bud nestled snug and warm against the
winter's cold;
The young bud being sheltered by the knowledge of
the old.
And when the spring shall come again--and gentle
turns the day,
The youthful bud will swell with strength and thrust
the old away;
The youthful bud will seek the breeze and hunger
for the sun,
And down to earth will fall the old with all its
duty done.
Then, heedless of the parent leaf, the youthful
bud will grow
And watch the robins build their nests and watch
the robins go.
Then something strange will come to it when that
young leaf grows old,
It, too, will want to shield its babe against the
winter's cold.
It, too, will cling unto the tree through many a
dreary day
Until the spring-time comes again and it is
thrust away;
Then it will flutter down to earth with all its
duty done,
And leave behind its happy child to drink the
morning sun.
How like man's life from birth to close! How like
the white oak tree
Which keeps a shelter for its young against the
storms, are we!
We guard our children through the night and watch
them through the day,
And when at last our work is done, like leaves,
we fall away.
_Dirty Hands_
I have to wash myself at night before I go to bed,
An' wash again when I get up, and wash before
I'm fed,
An' Ma inspects my neck an' ears an' Pa my hands
an' shirt--
They seem to wonder why it is that I'm so fond
of dirt.
But Bill--my chum--an' I agree that we have
never seen
A feller doing anything whose hands were white
an' clean.
Bill's mother scolds the same as mine an' calls him
in from play
To make him wash his face an' hands a dozen times
a day.
Dirt seems to worry mothers so. But when the plumber
comes
To fix the pipes, it's plain to see he never scrubs
his thumbs;
His clothes are always thick with grease, his face
is smeared with dirt,
An' he is not ashamed to show the smudges on his shirt.
The motorman who runs the car has hands much worse
than mine,
An' I have noticed when we ride there's dirt in
every line.
The carpenter who works around our house can mend
a chair
Or put up shelves or fix the floor, an' mother
doesn't care
That he's not in his Sunday best; she never interferes
An' makes him stop his work to go upstairs to wash
his ears.
The fellers really doing things, as far as I can see.
Have hands and necks and ears that are as dirty
as can be.
The man who fixes father's car when he can't make it go,
Most always has a smudgy face--his hands aren't
white as snow.
But I must wash an' wash an' wash while everybody knows
The most important men in town have dirty hands
and clo'es.
_If I Were a Boss_
If I were a boss I would like to say:
"You did a good job here yesterday."
I'd look for a man, or a girl, or boy
Whose heart would leap with a thrill of joy
At a word of praise, and I'd pass it out
Where the crowd could hear as I walked about.
If I were the boss I would like to find
The fellow whose work is the proper kind;
And whenever to me a good thing came,
I'd ask to be told the toiler's name,
And I'd go to him and I'd pat his back
And I'd say: "That was perfectly splendid, Jack!"
Now a bit of praise isn't much to give,
But it's dear to the hearts of all who live;
And there's never a man on this good old earth
But is glad to be told that he's been of worth;
And a kindly word when the work is fair
Is welcomed and wanted everywhere.
If I were a boss, I am sure I should
Say a kindly word whenever I could,
For the man who has given his best by day
Wants a little more than his weekly pay;
He likes to know, with the setting sun,
That his boss is pleased with the work he's done.
_To the Little Baby_
You know your mother--that's plain as day,
But those wide blue eyes of you seem to say
When I bend over your crib: "Now who
Are you?"
It's little figure I cut, I know,
And faces trouble a baby so,
But I'm the gladdest of all the glad--
Your dad!
You're two months old, and you see us smile,
And I know you are wondering all the while
Whoever on earth can these people be
You see.
You've learned your mother; you know her well
When hunger rattles the dinner bell,
But somehow or other you cannot place
My face.
As yet, I'm but one of the passing throng,
The curious people who come along
And pause at your crib, and you seem to say
Each day:
"I know one voice that is sweet to hear,
I know her step when my mother's near,
I know her wonderful smile--but who
Are you?
"You always come with the same old grin,
Your finger's rough when you tickle my chin,
But you run away when I start to cry,
And I
Don't understand when visitors call
Why you're so afraid they will let me fall.
You are the queerest of all the queer
Folks here!"
It's true that over your crib I stand
And tickle your chin with my rough old hand.
And I run away when you start to cry,
But I
Have a right to my queer little funny ways,
To boast your worth and to sound your praise,
For I am the gladdest of all the glad--
Your dad.
_His Work_
There isn't much fame on a farm, an' the farm doesn't
pile up the wealth;
It gives you an appetite early an' late, an' it's usually
lavish with health.
The world travels by in its cars, but the men and the
women don't see
Any reason to cheer anything that I do or pin any
medals on me;
But I'm doin' my work just the same an' at night-time
the Lord an' I know
That the wheat's lookin' fine in the acres out there,
and I--well, I helped it to grow.
Sometimes I get gloomy an' blue an' wish I could rise
with the great,
An' wish I could point something out which my hands
have builded or helped to create;
Then the orchard looks over to me an' the fruit-laden
trees seem to say,
"If it were not for you an' the care that you've given,
we wouldn't be bearin' today."
An' the acres of corn over there, I planted 'em all,
row by row,
"The good gift o' nature," the poets declare--but
the Lord knows I helped it to grow.
I reckon I'm fillin' my place, though workin' all
day on the soil
An' standin' the heat of the merciless sun isn't
listed as glorious toil.
There's little of brilliance here, an' there's
nothin' to brag of; I guess
A farmer's a farmer, an' that's all he is--an' his
crops are his only success.
But the Lord knows, an' I know it, too, as I plough
or I harrow or hoe,
That these fields would be barren of wheat an' of
corn, if I hadn't helped 'em to grow.
_Bread and Butter_
I've eaten chicken a la king
And many a fancy dish,
I think I've tasted everything
The heart of man can wish;
But nightly when we dine alone,
My grateful praise I utter
Unto that good old stand-by, known
As mother's bread and butter.
Some think it very common fare
And may be they are right,
But I can take that wholesome pair
At morning, noon and night;
And there's a happy thrill I feel
That sets my heart a-flutter
As I sit down to make a meal
Of mother's bread and butter.
Though poets sing their favorite foods
In lilting lines and sweet,
And each unto his different moods
Tells what he likes to eat,
I still remain the little boy
Who gleefully would mutter
A youngster's gratitude and joy
For mother's bread and butter.
So now, for all the joy I've had
From such a wholesome pair
Since first I was a little lad
In hunger's deep despair,
I hold the finest food of all--
Though epicures may sputter
And sneer me from the banquet hall--
Is mother's bread and butter.
_The Little Clothes Line_
The little clothes line by the kitchen door!
My mother stretched it once when I was young,
And there the garments which the baby wore,
Each morning, very carefully, she hung.
Square bits of flannel fluttered in the breeze,
White stockings very delicate and small,
Long flowing dresses and the glad bootees,
A little blanket and a knitted shawl.
Then came the day when mother took it down,
And we forgot what symbols fluttered there;
We'd grown to breast the current of the town,
To fight for conquest and to stand to care.
Ten years ago she smiled and said to me:
"I want a little clothes line by the door."
And there she hung, for all the world to see,
The various bits of raiment which he wore.
Even the ragman on his alley round
Knew, by the symbols fluttering on that line,
That there a little baby would be found,
And day by day he saw that glorious sign.
Then boyhood came and called our babe away,
Muscled him strong and turned his cheeks to brown,
Gave him the strength to run and romp and play,
And then she took the little clothes line down.
To-day I sat beside her bed, and she
Smiled the sweet smile of motherhood once more.
"When I get up again," she said to me,
"I'll want a little clothes line by the door."
_The Ballad of the Indifferent Whist Player_
I am not much at the game,
Careless the things that I do;
Those whose approval I claim
When I attempt it, are few;
Bridge players look in dismay
After a hand I have played,
Always they icily say:
"Why did you lead me a spade?"
I, who am gentle and tame,
Am scorned by a merciless crew;
I bear the brunt and the blame
Whenever they mutter, "Down two!"
No matter what card I may play,
No matter that whist's not my trade,
Always they sneeringly say:
"Why did you lead me a spade?"
Matron, young maiden or dame,
Brown eyes or gray eyes or blue,
Angrily treat me the same
Recalling the cards that I drew.
Be it December or May,
Ever she starts this tirade
With a look that's intended to slay:
"Why did you lead me a spade?"
_L'Envoi_
Prince, when my soul flies away
And my form in the cold ground is laid,
Let me rest where nobody will say:
"Why did you lead me a spade?"
_The Broken Wheel_
We found the car beneath a tree.
"The steering knuckle broke," said he;
"The driver's dead; they say his wife
Will be an invalid for life.
I wonder how the man must feel
Who made that faulty steering wheel."
It seemed a curious thought, and I
Sat thinking, as the cars went by,
About the man who made the wheel
And shaped that knuckle out of steel;
I tried to visualize the scene--
The man, the steel and the machine.
Perhaps the workman never saw
An indication of the flaw;
Or, seeing it, he fancied it
Would not affect his work a bit,
And said: "It's good enough to go--
I'll pass it on. They'll never know."
"It's not exactly to my best
But it may pass the final test;
And should it break, no man can know
It was my hand that made it so.
The thing is faulty, but perhaps
We'll never hear it when it snaps."
Of course the workman couldn't see
The mangled car beneath the tree,
The dead man, and the tortured wife
Doomed to a cripple's chair for life--
His chief concern was getting by
The stern inspector's eager eye.
Perhaps he whistles on his way
Into the factory to-day
And doesn't know the ruin wrought
By just one minute's careless thought.
Yet human life is held at stake
By nearly all that toilers make.
_The Tender Blossoms_
"I will gather some flowers for our friend," she said,
So into the garden with her I went
And stood for awhile at the rose's bed
As she stooped to her labor of sentiment.
"Why not the full blown blossom there?
Why do you leave it and pass it by?"
Those were the questions I asked of her.
And she answered me: "It is soon to die."
"Here is a withered and blasted rose,
Better without it the plant would be;
Cut it and mingle it now with those
You are taking away for your friend to see."
"Here is a peony stained and torn,
Take it and cling to your choicest bloom."
But she answered me with a look of scorn:
"These flowers are to brighten a sick friend's room."
"Only the tenderest bud I'll take.
Never the withered and worn and old;
Of my fairest flowers is the gift I make
By which my love for my friend is told."
"So, when the angels call," said I,
"And fold in their arms a little child,
Passing the old and the broken by,
Think of this and be reconciled.
"Always the tenderest buds they take,
Pure and lovely and undefiled.
When a gift of love unto God they'd make,
Always they come for a little child."
_Questioning_
You shall wonder as you meet
Drunkards reeling down the street,
Helpless cripples and the blind,
Human wrecks of every kind
Living on from day to day,
Why your loved one couldn't stay.
These are thoughts which always come
When the heart with grief is numb.
"Why," the anguished mother cries,
With the tears still in her eyes,
"Must my baby go away
And some sinful creature stay?"
Thus, rebellious in your grief,
You may falter in belief
And your blinded eyes will see
No just cause why this should be;
But the passing years will show
Wisely was it ordered so.
Hold your faith and bear the pain--
Questioning your God is vain.
None of us has power to know
Who should stay and who should go.
Hold this everlasting truth--
Heaven has need of lovely youth.
Think of this when you are tried:
If the wretched only died,
Then would death to us be sent
Always as a punishment?
But the passing from the earth
Is more beautiful than birth.
_The Choir Boy_
They put his spotless surplice on
And tied his flowing tie,
And he was fair to look upon
As he went singing by.
He sang the hymns with gentle grace,
That little lad of nine,
For there was something in his face
Which seemed almost divine.
His downcast eye was good to see,
His brow was smooth and fair,
And no one dreamed that there could be
A rascal plotting there;
Yet when all heads in prayer were bowed,
God's gracious care to beg,
The boy next to him cried aloud:
"Quit pinching o' my leg!"
A pious little child he seemed,
An angel born to sing;
Beholding him, none ever dreamed
He'd do a naughty thing;
Yet many a sudden "ouch!" proclaimed
That he had smuggled in
For mischief-making, unashamed,
A most disturbing pin.
And yet, I think, from high above,
The Father looking down,
Knows everything he's thinking of
And smiles when mortals frown,
For in the spotless surplice white
Which is his mother's joy,
He knows he's not an angel bright,
But just a healthy boy.
_The Lay of the Troubled Golfer_
His eye was wild and his face was taut with
anger and hate and rage,
And the things he muttered were much too strong
for the ink of the printed page.
I found him there when the dusk came down, in
his golf clothes still was he,
And his clubs were strewn around his feet as he
told his grief to me:
"I'd an easy five for a seventy-nine--in sight
of the golden goal--
An easy five and I took an eight--an eight on
the eighteenth hole!
"I've dreamed my dreams of the 'seventy men,'
and I've worked year after year,
I have vowed I would stand with the chosen few
ere the end of my golf career;
I've cherished the thought of a seventy score, and
the days have come and gone
And I've never been close to the golden goal my
heart was set upon.
But today I stood on the eighteenth tee and
counted that score of mine,
And my pulses raced with the thrill of joy--I'd
a five for a seventy-nine!
"I can kick the ball from the eighteenth tee and
get this hole in five,
But I took the wood and I tried to cross that
ditch with a mighty drive--"
Let us end the quotes, it is best for all to imagine
his language rich,
But he topped that ball, as we often do, and the
pill stopped in the ditch.
His third was short and his fourth was bad and
his fifth was off the line,
And he took an eight on the eighteenth hole with
a five for a seventy-nine.
I gathered his clubs and I took his arm and alone
in the locker room
I left him sitting upon the bench, a picture of
grief and gloom;
And the last man came and took his shower and
hurried upon his way,
But still he sat with his head bowed down like
one with a mind astray,
And he counted his score card o'er and o'er and
muttered this doleful whine:
"I took an eight on the eighteenth hole, with a
five for a seventy-nine!"
_Peter and Paul_
Peter's the fellow I go to whenever Paul
presses his claim.
Peter is easy to deal with, Peter's not
ready with blame;
Paul has a way of insisting I shall be true
to my word,
And hints of a final accounting whenever a
debt is incurred.
Peter is pleasant and smiling and ready to
lend when he can;
Paul offers counsel and caution and talks
of the ways of a man,
And whenever Paul's debts must be settled
and I must return what I owe
And haven't the money I promised, to borrow
from Peter I go.
But the more that I think about Peter, the
greater my fancy for Paul,
I know he'd be first to defend me if ever
disaster should fall,
For Peter thinks only of money and smilingly
reckons his fee,
While Paul, when he whispers of caution, thinks
not of himself but of me.
Paul would defend me from trouble, would shield
and protect my renown,
But Peter would add to my burdens and smilingly
let me go down.
Yes, Peter the pleasant would wreck me, and
gloat when I rode to my fall,
So the more that I learn about Peter, the
greater my fondness for Paul.
_Life's Equipment_
"Here's how I figure it out," says he,
"With my ears to hear and my eyes to see,
And my legs to walk and my hands to work,
And a head to bow and a cap to jerk
Whenever a woman I know goes by--
It's well-equipped for this life, am I.
"Kings and princes and high and low
Have noses to smell when the blossoms blow.
And eyes to see, but I don't suppose
A king smells more with his royal nose
Or sees more charm with his kingly eye
In the pink of the orchard blooms, than I.
"But eyes and ears and legs and hands
Don't always follow the same commands,
And some find beauty in dollar bills,
And some in the streams and the misty hills;
Some people hear nothing but mortal words,
And some are tuned to the songs of birds.
"Some grapple with facts that are stiff and cold,
And some see visions all tipped with gold;
Some hands are tender and others rough,
And some are gentle and some are gruff;
But each must follow life's pathway through,
Doing the things which he likes to do.
"Now I find joy when I tramp about,
Up hill and down, for my legs are stout
And my ears and eyes can pick up things
That are maybe lost to the wisest kings;
And I'm always grateful, when day is through,
That I'm built for the things which I like to do."
_A Fairy Story_
Sit here on my knee, little girl, and I'll tell
A story to you
Of a fairy I knew
Who lived in a garden when I was a child.
She was lovely to see and whenever she smiled
The sunbeams came dancing around just to know
Whatever it was that was pleasing her so.
She lived in a poppy and used to peek out
And shout: "Oh, Yoo-hoo!
I've been waiting for you!"
And then I'd go over to her house and play
And she'd saddle a bee and we'd both ride away,
Or sometimes we'd take a most wonderful trip
With the sky for the sea and a cloud for our ship.
Oft my father and mother would look out and say:
"The glad little elf
Plays there all by himself,
And he comes in and tells us of things he has seen
And the marvelous places to which he has been;
He tells us of dining with princes and kings--
It's a curious boy who can think up such things."
Now this all occurred in the long years ago,
And the fairy has fled,
And the poppies are dead,
And never again may I ride on a bee,
Or sail on a cloud with the sky for the sea.
But that fairy has promised, when poppies are fair,
To come back again and to wait for you there.
Yes, you can go out when the skies are all blue
And see what I've seen,
And go where I've been.
You can have fairies to lead you away,
To show you strange sights and to share in your play;
And the grown-ups may say that your fancies are wild,
But fairies are real to an innocent child.