Poems Teachers Ask For Volume I Part 29

He goes to walk with her and carries her m.u.f.f And coat and umbrella, and that kind of stuff; She loads him with things that must weigh 'most a ton; And, honest, he _likes_ it,--as if it was fun!

And, oh, say!

When they go to a play, He'll sit in the parlor and fidget away, And she won't come down till it's quarter past eight, And then she'll scold _him_ 'cause they get there so late.

He spends heaps of money a-buyin' her things, Like candy, and flowers, and presents, and rings; And all he's got for 'em's a handkerchief case-- A fussed-up concern, made of ribbons and lace; But, my land! He thinks it's just grand, "'Cause she made it," he says, "with her own little hand"; He calls her "an angel"--I heard him--and "saint,"

And "beautif'lest bein' on earth"--but she ain't,

'Fore I go on an errand for her any time, I just make her coax me, and give me a dime; But that great big silly--why, honest and true-- He'd run forty miles if she wanted him to.

Oh, gee whiz!

I tell you what 'tis!

I jest think it's _awful_--those actions of his.

I won't fall in love, when I'm grown--no sir-ee!

My sister's best feller's a warnin' to me!

_Joseph C. Lincoln._

Where the West Begins

Out where the handclasp's a little stronger, Out where a smile dwells a little longer, That's where the West begins.

Out where the sun's a little brighter, Where the snow that falls is a trifle whiter, Where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter, That's where the West begins.

Out where the skies are a trifle bluer, Out where friends.h.i.+p's a little truer, That's where the West begins.

Out where a fresher breeze is blowing, Where there is laughter in every streamlet flowing, Where there's more of reaping and less of sowing, That's where the West begins.

Out where the world is in the making, Where fewer hearts with despair are aching; That's where the West begins.

Where there is more of singing and less of sighing, Where there is more of giving and less of buying, And a man makes friends without half trying-- That's where the West begins.

_Arthur Chapman._

The Tapestry Weavers

Let us take to our hearts a lesson--no lesson can braver be-- From the ways of the tapestry weavers on the other side of the sea.

Above their heads the pattern hangs, they study it with care, The while their fingers deftly move, their eyes are fastened there.

They tell this curious thing, besides, of the patient, plodding weaver: He works on the wrong side evermore, but works for the right side ever.

It is only when the weaving stops, and the web is loosed and turned, That he sees his real handiwork--that his marvelous skill is learned.

Ah, the sight of its delicate beauty, how it pays him for all his cost!

No rarer, daintier work than his was ever done by the frost.

Then the master bringeth him golden hire, and giveth him praise as well, And how happy the heart of the weaver is, no tongue but his can tell.

The years of man are the looms of G.o.d, let down from the place of the sun, Wherein we are weaving ever, till the mystic web is done.

Weaving blindly but weaving surely each for himself his fate-- We may not see how the right side looks, we can only weave and wait.

But, looking above for the pattern, no weaver hath to fear; Only let him look clear into heaven, the Perfect Pattern is there.

If he keeps the face of the Savior forever and always in sight His toil shall be sweeter than honey, his weaving sure to be right.

And when the work is ended, and the web is turned and shown, He shall hear the voice of the Master, it shall say unto him, "Well done!"

And the white-winged Angels of Heaven, to bear him shall come down; And G.o.d shall give him gold for his hire--not a coin--but a glowing crown.

When the Teacher Gets Cross

When the teacher gets cross, and her blue eyes gets black, And the pencil comes down on the desk with a whack, We chillen all sit up straight in a line, As if we had rulers instead of a spine, And it's scary to cough, and it a'n't safe to grin, When the teacher gets cross, and the dimples goes in.

When the teacher gets cross, the tables get mixed, The ones and the twos begins to play tricks.

The pluses and minuses is just little smears, When the cry babies cry their slates full of tears, And the figgers won't add,--but just act up like sin, When the teacher gets cross, and the dimples goes in.

When the teacher gets cross, the reading gets bad.

The lines jingle round till the' chillen is sad.

And Billy boy puffs and gets red in the face, As if he and the lesson were running a race, Until she hollers out, "Next!" as sharp as a pin, When the teacher gets cross, and the dimples goes in.

When the teacher gets good, her smile is so bright, That the tables gets straight, and the reading gets right.

The pluses and minuses comes trooping along, And the figgers add up and stop being wrong, And we chillen would like, but we da.s.sent, to shout, When the teacher gets good, and the dimples comes out.

Recessional

G.o.d of our fathers, known of old, Lord of our far-flung battle line, Beneath whose awful Hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine-- Lord G.o.d of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies; The captains and the kings depart: Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart.

Lord G.o.d of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

Far-called, our navies melt away; On dune and headland sinks the fire: Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!

Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-- Such boasting as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the Law-- Lord G.o.d of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard, All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding, calls not Thee to guard, For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

Amen.

_Rudyard Kipling._