The Path to Home Part 15

Age will tell you that the memory is the treasure-house of man.

Gold and fleeting fame may vanish, but life's riches never can; For the little home of laughter and the voice of every friend And the joys of real contentment linger with us to the end.

My Job

I wonder where's a better job than buying cake and meat, And chocolate drops and sugar buns for little folks to eat?

And who has every day to face a finer round of care Than buying frills and furbelows for little folks to wear?

Oh, you may brag how much you know and boast of what you do, And think an all-important post has been a.s.signed to you, But I've the greatest job on earth, a task I'll never lose; I've several pairs of little feet to keep equipped with shoes.

I rather like the job I have, though humble it may be, And little gold or little fame may come from it to me; It seems to me that life can give to man no finer joy Than buying little breeches for a st.u.r.dy little boy.

My job is not to run the world or pile up bonds and stocks; It's just to keep two little girls in plain and fancy frocks; To dress and feed a growing boy whose legs are brown and stout, And furnish stockings just as fast as he can wear them out.

I would not for his crown and throne change places with a king, I've got the finest job on earth and unto it I'll cling; I know no better task than mine, no greater chance for joys, Than serving day by day the needs of little girls and boys.

A Good Name

Men talk too much of gold and fame, And not enough about a name; And yet a good name's better far Than all earth's glistening jewels are.

Who holds his name above all price And chooses every sacrifice To keep his earthly record clear, Can face the world without a fear.

Who never cheats nor lies for gain, A poor man may, perhaps, remain, Yet, when at night he goes to rest, No little voice within his breast Disturbs his slumber. Conscience clear, He falls asleep with naught to fear And when he wakes the world to face He is not tainted by disgrace.

Who keeps his name without a stain Wears no man's brand and no man's chain; He need not fear to speak his mind In dread of what the world may find.

He then is master of his will; None may command him to be still, Nor force him, when he would stand fast, To flinch before his hidden past.

Not all the gold that men may claim Can cover up a deed of shame; Not all the fame of victory sweet Can free the man who played the cheat; He lives a slave unto the last Unto the shame that mars his past.

He only freedom here may own Whose name a stain has never known.

Alone

Strange thoughts come to the man alone; 'Tis then, if ever, he talks with G.o.d, And views himself as a single clod In the soil of life where the souls are grown.

'Tis then he questions the why and where, The start and end of his years and days, And what is blame and what is praise, And what is ugly and what is fair.

When a man has drawn from the busy throng To the sweet retreat of the silent hours, Low voices whisper of higher powers.

He catches the strain of some far-off song, And the sham fades out and his eyes can see, Not the man he is in the day's hot strife And the greed and grind of a selfish life, But the soul of the man he is to be.

He feels the throbbing of life divine, And catches a glimpse of the greater plan; He questions the purpose and work of man.

In the hours of silence his mind grows fine; He seeks to learn what is kept unknown; He turns from self and its garb of clay And dwells on the soul and the higher way.

Strange thoughts come when a man's alone.

Shut-Ins

We're gittin' so we need again To see the sproutin' seed again.

We've been shut up all winter long Within our narrow rooms; We're sort o' shriveled up an' dry-- Ma's cranky-like an' quick to cry; We need the blue skies overhead, The garden with its blooms.

I'm findin' fault with this an' that!

I threw my bootjack at the cat Because he rubbed against my leg-- I guess I'm all on edge; I'm fidgety an' fussy too, An' Ma finds fault with all I do; It seems we need to see again The green upon the hedge.

We've been shut up so long, it seems We've lost the glamour of our dreams.

We've narrowed down as people will Till fault is all we see.

We need to stretch our souls in air Where there is room enough to spare; We need the sight o' something green On every shrub an' tree.

But soon our petulance will pa.s.s-- Our feet will tread the dew-kissed gra.s.s; Our souls will break their narrow cells, An' swell with love once more.

And with the blue skies overhead, The harsh an' hasty words we've said Will vanish with the snow an' ice, When spring unlocks the door.

The sun will make us sweet again With blossoms at our feet again; We'll wander, arm in arm, the ways Where beauty reigns supreme.

An' Ma an' I shall smile again, An' be ourselves awhile again, An' claim, like prisoners set free, The charm of every dream.

The Cut-Down Trousers

When father couldn't wear them mother cut them down for me; She took the slack in fore and aft, and hemmed them at the knee; They fitted rather loosely, but the things that made me glad Were the horizontal pockets that those good old trousers had.

They shone like patent leather just where well-worn breeches do, But the cloth in certain portions was considered good as new, And I know that I was envied by full many a richer lad For the horizontal pockets that those good old knickers had.

They were cut along the waist line, with the opening straight and wide, And there wasn't any limit to what you could get inside; They would hold a peck of marbles, and a knife and top and string, And snakes and frogs and turtles; there was room for everything.

Then our fortune changed a little, and my mother said that she Wouldn't bother any longer fitting father's duds on me, But the store clothes didn't please me; there were times they made me sad, For I missed those good old pockets that my father's trousers had.

Dinner-Time

Tuggin' at your bottle, An' it's O, you're mighty sweet!

Just a bunch of dimples From your top-knot to your feet, Lying there an' gooin'

In the happiest sort o' way, Like a rosebud peekin' at me In the early hours o' day; Gloating over goodness That you know an' sense an' clutch, An' smilin' at your daddy, Who loves you, O, so much!