The Path to Home Part 3

An' the doctor looked an' said: "It is very sore an' red-- Much too sore to touch at all.

See that picture on the wall, That one over yonder, Bud, With the old cow in the mud?

"Once I owned a cow like that, Jes' as brown an' big an' fat, An' one day I pulled her tail An' she kicked an' knocked the pail Full o' milk clean over me."

Then I looked up there t' see His old cow above the couch, An' right then I hollered "ouch."

"Bud," says he, "what's wrong with you; Did the old cow kick you, too?"

An' he laughed, an' Ma said: "Son, Never mind, now, it's all done."

Pretty soon we came away An' my hand's all well to-day.

But that's first time that I knew Picture cows could kick at you.

Compensation

I'd like to think when life is done That I had filled a needed post, That here and there I'd paid my fare With more than idle talk and boast; That I had taken gifts divine, The breath of life and manhood fine, And tried to use them now and then In service for my fellow men.

I'd hate to think when life is through That I had lived my round of years A useless kind, that leaves behind No record in this vale of tears; That I had wasted all my days By treading only selfish ways, And that this world would be the same If it had never known my name.

I'd like to think that here and there, When I am gone, there shall remain A happier spot that might have not Existed had I toiled for gain; That some one's cheery voice and smile Shall prove that I had been worth while; That I had paid with something fine My debt to G.o.d for life divine.

It Couldn't Be Done

Somebody said that it couldn't be done, But he with a chuckle replied That "maybe it couldn't," but he would be one Who wouldn't say so till he'd tried.

So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin On his face. If he worried he hid it.

He started to sing as he tackled the thing That couldn't be done, and he did it.

Somebody scoffed: "Oh, you'll never do that; At least no one ever has done it"; But he took off his coat and he took off his hat, And the first thing we knew he'd begun it.

With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin, Without any doubting or quiddit, He started to sing as he tackled the thing That couldn't be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done, There are thousands to prophesy failure; There are thousands to point out to you one by one, The dangers that wait to a.s.sail you.

But just buckle in with a bit of a grin, Just take off your coat and go to it; Just start in to sing as you tackle the thing That "cannot be done," and you'll do it.

Service

You never hear the robins brag about the sweetness of their song, Nor do they stop their music gay whene'er a poor man comes along.

G.o.d taught them how to sing an' when they'd learned the art He sent them here To use their talents day by day the dreary lives o' men to cheer.

An' rich or poor an' sad or gay, the ugly an' the fair to see, Can stop most any time in June an' hear the robins' melody.

I stand an' watch them in the sun, usin' their gifts from day to day, Swellin' their little throats with song, regardless of man's praise or pay; Jes' bein' robins, nothing else, nor claiming greatness for their deeds, But jes' content to gratify one of the big world's many needs, Singin' a lesson to us all to be ourselves and scatter cheer By usin' every day the gifts G.o.d gave us when He sent us here.

Why should we keep our talents hid, or think we favor men because We use the gifts that G.o.d has given? The robins never ask applause, Nor count themselves remarkable, nor strut in a superior way, Because their music sweeter is than that G.o.d gave unto the jay.

Only a man conceited grows as he makes use of talents fine, Forgetting that he merely does the working of the Will Divine.

Lord, as the robins, let me serve! Teach me to do the best I can To make this world a better place, an' happier for my fellow man.

If gift o' mine can cheer his soul an' hearten him along his way Let me not keep that talent hid; I would make use of it to-day.

An' since the robins ask no praise, or pay for all their songs o' cheer, Let me in humbleness rejoice to do my bit o' service here.

At the Peace Table

Who shall sit at the table, then, when the terms of peace are made-- The wisest men of the troubled lands in their silver and gold brocade?

Yes, they shall gather in solemn state to speak for each living race, But who shall speak for the unseen dead that shall come to the council place?

Though you see them not and you hear them not, they shall sit at the table, too; They shall throng the room where the peace is made and know what it is you do; The innocent dead from the sea shall rise to stand at the wise man's side, And over his shoulder a boy shall look--a boy that was crucified.

You may guard the doors of that council hall with barriers strong and stout, But the dead unbidden shall enter there, and never you'll shut them out.

And the man that died in the open boat, and the babes that suffered worse, Shall sit at the table when peace is made by the side of a martyred nurse.

You may see them not, but they'll all be there; when they speak you may fail to hear; You may think that you're making your pacts alone, but their spirits will hover near; And whatever the terms of the peace you make with the tyrant whose hands are red, You must please not only the living here, but must satisfy your dead.

Mrs. Malone and the Censor

When Mrs. Malone got a letter from Pat She started to read it aloud in her flat.

"Dear Mary," it started, "I can't tell you much, I'm somewhere in France, and I'm fightin' the Dutch; I'm chokin' wid news thot I'd like to relate, But it's little a soldier's permitted t' state.

Do ye mind Red McPhee--well, he fell in a ditch An' busted an arrm, but I can't tell ye which.

"An' Paddy O'Hara was caught in a flame An' rescued by--Faith, I can't tell ye his name.

Last night I woke up wid a terrible pain; I thought for awhile it would drive me insane.

Oh, the suff'rin, I had was most dreadful t' bear!

I'm sorry, my dear, but I can't tell ye where.

The doctor he gave me a pill, but I find It's conthrary to rules t' disclose here the kind.

"I've been t' the dintist an' had a tooth out.

I'm sorry t' leave you so shrouded in doubt But the best I can say is that one tooth is gone, The censor won't let me inform ye which one.

I met a young fellow who knows ye right well, An' ye know him, too, but his name I can't tell.

He's Irish, red-headed, an' there with th' blarney, His folks once knew your folks back home in Killarney."

"By gorry," said Mrs. Malone in her flat, "It's hard t' make sinse out av writin' like that, But I'll give him as good as he sends, that I will."

So she went right to work with her ink well an' quill, An' she wrote, "I suppose ye're dead eager fer news-- You know when ye left we were buyin' the shoes; Well, the baby has come, an' we're both doin' well; It's a ----. Oh, but that's somethin' they won't let me tell."