The Path to Home Part 9

When winter shuts a fellow in and turns the lock upon his door, There's nothing else for him to do but sit and dream his bygones o'er.

And then before an open fire he smokes his pipe, while in the blaze He seems to see a picture show of all his happy yesterdays.

No ordinary film is that which memory throws upon the screen, But one in which his hidden soul comes out and can be plainly seen.

Now, I've been dreaming by the grate. I've seen myself the way I am, Stripped bare of affectation's garb and wisdom's pose and folly's sham.

I've seen my soul and talked with it, and learned some things I never knew.

I walk about the world as one, but I express the wish of two.

I've come to see the soul of me is wiser than my selfish mind, For it has safely led me through the tangled paths I've left behind.

I should have sold myself for gold when I was young long years ago, But for my soul which whispered then: "You love your home and garden so, You never could be quite content in palace walls. Once rise to fame And you will lose the gentler joys which now so eagerly you claim.

I want to walk these lanes with you and keep the comrades.h.i.+p of trees, Let you and I be happy here, nor seek life's gaudy luxuries."

Mine is a curious soul, I guess; it seemed so, smiling in my dreams; It keeps me close to little folks and birds and flowers and running streams, To Mother and her friends and mine; and though no fortune we possess, The years that we have lived and loved have all been rich with happiness.

I'm glad the snowdrifts shut me in, for I have had a chance to see How fortunate I've been to have that sort of soul to counsel me.

Aunty

I'm sorry for a feller if he hasn't any aunt, To let him eat and do the things his mother says he can't.

An aunt to come a visitin' or one to go and see Is just about the finest kind of lady there could be.

Of course she's not your mother, an' she hasn't got her ways, But a part that's most important in a feller's life she plays.

She is kind an' she is gentle, an' sometimes she's full of fun, An' she's very sympathetic when some dreadful thing you've done.

An' she likes to buy you candy, an' she's always gettin' toys That you wish your Pa would get you, for she hasn't any boys.

But sometimes she's over-loving, an' your cheeks turn red with shame When she smothers you with kisses, but you like her just the same.

One time my father took me to my aunty's, an' he said: "You will stay here till I get you, an' be sure you go to bed When your aunty says it's time to, an' be good an' mind her, too, An' when you come home we'll try to have a big surprise for you."

I did as I was told to, an' when Pa came back for me He said there was a baby at the house for me to see.

I've been visitin' at aunty's for a week or two, an' Pa Has written that he's comin' soon to take me home to Ma.

He says they're gettin' lonely, an' I'm kind o' lonely, too, Coz an aunt is not exactly what your mother is to you.

I am hungry now to see her, but I'm wondering to-day If Pa's bought another baby in the time I've been away.

Bread and Jam

I wish I was a poet like the men that write in books The poems that we have to learn on valleys, hills an' brooks; I'd write of things that children like an' know an' understand, An' when the kids recited them the folks would call them grand.

If I'd been born a Whittier, instead of what I am, I'd write a poem now about a piece of bread an' jam.

I'd tell how hungry children get all afternoon in school, An' sittin' at attention just because it is the rule, An' lookin' every now an' then up to the clock to see If that big hand an' little hand would ever get to three.

I'd tell how children hurry home an' give the door a slam An' ask their mothers can they have a piece of bread an' jam.

Some poets write of things to eat an' sing of dinners fine, An' praise the dishes they enjoy, an' some folks sing of wine, But they've forgotten, I suppose, the days when they were small An' hurried home from school to get the finest food of all; They don't remember any more how good it was to cram Inside their hungry little selves a piece of bread an' jam.

I wish I was a Whittier, a Stevenson or Burns, I wouldn't write of hills an' brooks, or mossy banks or ferns, I wouldn't write of rolling seas or mountains towering high, But I would sing of chocolate cake an' good old apple pie, An' best of all the food there is, beyond the slightest doubt, Is bread an' jam we always get as soon as school is out.

The Little Woman

The little woman, to her I bow And doff my hat as I pa.s.s her by; I reverence the furrows that mark her brow, And the sparkling love light in her eye.

The little woman who stays at home, And makes no bid for the world's applause; Who never sighs for a chance to roam, But toils all day in a grander cause.

The little woman, who seems so weak, Yet bears her burdens day by day; And no one has ever heard her speak In a bitter or loud complaining way.

She sings a s.n.a.t.c.h of a merry song, As she toils in her home from morn to night.

Her work is hard and the hours are long But the little woman's heart is light.

A slave to love is that woman small, And yearly her burdens heavier grow, But somehow she seems to bear them all, As the deep'ning lines in her white cheeks show.

Her children all have a mother's care, Her home the touch of a good wife knows; No burden's too heavy for her to bear, But, patiently doing her best, she goes.

The little woman, may G.o.d be kind To her wherever she dwells to-day; The little woman who seems to find Her joy in toiling along life's way.

May G.o.d bring peace to her work-worn breast And joy to her mother-heart at last; May love be hers when it's time to rest, And the roughest part of the road is pa.s.sed.

The little woman--how oft it seems G.o.d chooses her for the mother's part; And many a grown-up sits and dreams To-day of her with an aching heart.

For he knows well how she toiled for him And he sees it now that it is too late; And often his eyes with tears grow dim For the little woman whose strength was great.

The Father of the Man

I can't help thinkin' o' the lad!

Here's summer bringin' trees to fruit, An' every bush with roses clad, An' nature in her finest suit, An' all things as they used to be In days before the war came on.

Yet time has changed both him an' me, An' I am here, but he is gone.

The orchard's as it was back then When he was just a little tyke; The lake's as calm an' fair as when We used to go to fish for pike.

There's nothing different I can see That G.o.d has made about the place, Except the change in him an' me, An' that is difficult to trace.

I only know one day he came An' found me in the barn alone.

To some he might have looked the same, But he was not the lad I'd known.

His soul, it seemed, had heard the call As plainly as a mortal can.

Before he spoke to me at all, I saw my boy become a man.

I can't explain just what occurred; I sat an' talked about it there; The dinner-bell I never heard, Or if I did, I didn't care.

But suddenly it seemed to me Out of the dark there came a light, An' in a new way I could see That I was wrong an' he was right.

I can't help thinkin' o' the lad!

He's fightin' hate an' greed an' l.u.s.t, An' here am I, his doting dad, Believin' in a purpose just.

Time was I talked the joy o' play, But now life's goal is all I see; The petty thoughts I've put away-- My boy has made a man o' me.