A Heap O' Livin Part 10

Pa says it looks as though he'll have to start in workin' nights To gather in the money for the checks that mother writes.

He says that every morning when he's summoned to the phone, He's afraid the bank is calling to make mother's shortage known.

He tells his friends if ever anything our fortune wrecks They can trace it to the moment mother started writing checks.

He's got so that he trembles when he sees her fountain pen An' he mutters: "Do be careful! You'll be overdrawn again!"

{102}

THE FIs.h.i.+NG CURE

There's nothing that builds up a toil-weary soul Like a day on a stream, Back on the banks of the old fis.h.i.+ng hole Where a fellow can dream.

There's nothing so good for a man as to flee From the city and lie Full length in the shade of a whispering tree And gaze at the sky.

Out there where the strife and the greed are forgot And the struggle for pelf, A man can get rid of each taint and each spot And clean up himself; He can be what he wanted to be when a boy, If only in dreams; And revel once more in the depths of a joy That's as real as it seems.

The things that he hates never follow him there-- The jar of the street, The rivalries petty, the struggling unfair-- For the open is sweet.

In purity's realm he can rest and be clean, Be he humble or great, And as peaceful his soul may become as the scene That his eyes contemplate.

It is good for the world that men hunger to go To the banks of a stream, And weary of sham and of pomp and of show They have somewhere to dream.

For this life would be dreary and sordid and base Did they not now and then Seek refreshment and calm in G.o.d's wide, open s.p.a.ce And come back to be men.

{103}

THE HAPPY SLOW THINKER

Full many a time a thought has come That had a bitter meaning in it.

And in the conversation's hum I lost it ere I could begin it.

I've had it on my tongue to spring Some poisoned quip that I thought clever; Then something happened and the sting Unuttered went, and died forever.

A lot of bitter thoughts I've had To silence fellows and to flay 'em, But next day always I've been glad I wasn't quick enough to say 'em.

{104}

OUT-OF-DOORS

The kids are out-of-doors once more; The heavy leggins that they wore, The winter caps that covered ears Are put away, and no more tears Are shed because they cannot go Until they're bundled up just so.

No more she wonders when they're gone If they have put their rubbers on; No longer are they hourly told To guard themselves against a cold; Bareheaded now they romp and run Warmed only by the kindly sun.

She's put their heavy clothes away And turned the children out to play, And all the morning long they race Like madcaps round about the place.

The robins on the fences sing A gayer song of welcoming, And seems as though they had a share In all the fun they're having there.

The wrens and sparrows twitter, too, A louder and a noisier crew, As though it pleased them all to see The youngsters out of doors and free.

Outdoors they scamper to their play With merry din the livelong day, And hungrily they jostle in The favor of the maid to win; Then, armed with cookies or with cake, Their way into the yard they make, And every feathered playmate comes To gather up his share of crumbs.

The finest garden that I know Is one where little children grow, Where cheeks turn brown and eyes are bright, And all is laughter and delight.

Oh, you may brag of gardens fine, But let the children race in mine; And let the roses, white and red, Make gay the ground whereon they tread.

And who for bloom perfection seeks, Should mark the color on their cheeks; No music that the robin spouts Is equal to their merry shouts; There is no foliage to compare With youngsters' sun-kissed, tousled hair: Spring's greatest joy beyond a doubt Is when it brings the children out.

{106}

REAL SINGING

You can talk about your music, and your operatic airs, And your phonographic record that Caruso's tenor bears; But there isn't any music that such wondrous joy can bring Like the concert when the kiddies and their mother start to sing.

When the supper time is over, then the mother starts to play Some simple little ditty, and our concert's under way.

And I'm happier and richer than a millionaire or king When I listen to the kiddies and their mother as they sing.

There's a sweetness most appealing in the trilling of their notes: It is innocence that's pouring from their little baby throats; And I gaze at them enraptured, for my joy's a real thing Every evening when the kiddies and their mother start to sing.

{107}

THE b.u.mPS AND BRUISES DOCTOR

I'm the b.u.mps and bruises doctor; I'm the expert that they seek When their rough and tumble playing Leaves a scar on leg or cheek.

I'm the rapid, certain curer For the wounds of every fall; I'm the pain eradicator; I can always heal them all.

b.u.mps on little people's foreheads I can quickly smooth away; I take splinters out of fingers Without very much delay.

Little sorrows I can banish With the magic of my touch; I can fix a bruise that's dreadful So it isn't hurting much.

I'm the b.u.mps and bruises doctor, And I answer every call, And my fee is very simple, Just a kiss, and that is all.

And I'm sitting here and wis.h.i.+ng In the years that are to be, When they face life's real troubles That they'll bring them all to me.

{108}

WHEN PA COUNTS

Pa's not so very big or brave; he can't lift weights like Uncle Jim; His hands are soft like little girls'; most anyone could wallop him.

Ma weighs a whole lot more than Pa. When they go swimming, she could stay Out in the river all day long, but Pa gets frozen right away.

But when the thunder starts to roll, an' lightnin'

spits, Ma says, "Oh, dear, I'm sure we'll all of us be killed. I only wish your Pa was here."

Pa's cheeks are thin an' kinder pale; he couldn't rough it worth a cent.

He couldn't stand the hike we had the day the Boy Scouts camping went.

He has to hire a man to dig the garden, coz his back gets lame, An' he'd be crippled for a week, if he should play a baseball game.

But when a thunder storm comes up, Ma sits an'

s.h.i.+vers in the gloam An' every time the thunder rolls, she says: "I wish your Pa was home."

I don't know just what Pa could do if he were home, he seems so frail, But every time the skies grow black I notice Ma gets rather pale.

An' when she's called us children in, an' locked the windows an' the doors, She jumps at every lightnin' flash an' trembles when the thunder roars.

An' when the baby starts to cry, she wrings her hands an' says: "Oh, dear, It's terrible! It's terrible! I only wish your Pa was here."

{109}

PEACE

A man must earn his hour of peace, Must pay for it with hours of strife and care, Must win by toil the evening's sweet release, The rest that may be portioned for his share; The idler never knows it, never can.

Peace is the glory ever of a man.

A man must win contentment for his soul, Must battle for it bravely day by day; The peace he seeks is not a near-by goal; To claim it he must tread a rugged way.