Part 12

RAISIN PIE

There's a heap of pent-up goodness in the yellow bantam corn, And I sort o' like to linger round a berry patch at morn; Oh, the Lord has set our table with a stock o' things to eat An' there's just enough o' bitter in the blend to cut the sweet, But I run the whole list over, an' it seems somehow that I Find the keenest sort o' pleasure in a chunk o' raisin pie.

There are pies that start the water circulatin' in the mouth; There are pies that wear the flavor of the warm an' sunny south; Some with oriental spices spur the drowsy appetite An' just fill a fellow's being with a thrill o' real delight; But for downright solid goodness that comes drippin' from the sky There is nothing quite the equal of a chunk o' raisin pie.

I'm admittin' tastes are diff'runt, I'm not settin' up myself As the judge an' final critic of the good things on the shelf. I'm sort o' payin' tribute to a simple joy on earth, Sort o' feebly testifyin' to its lasting charm an' worth, An' I'll hold to this conclusion till it comes my time to die, That there's no dessert that's finer than a chunk o' raisin pie.

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LIFE'S TESTS

If never a sorrow came to us, and never a care we knew; If every hope were realized, and every dream came true; If only joy were found on earth, and no one ever sighed, And never a friend proved false to us, and never a loved one died, And never a burden bore us down, soul-sick and weary, too, We'd yearn for tests to prove our worth and tasks for us to do.

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THE READY ARTISTS

The green is in the meadow and the blue is in the sky, And all of Nature's artists have their colors handy by; With a few days bright with sunshine and a few nights free from frost They will start to splash their colors quite regardless of the cost. There's an artist waiting ready at each bleak and dismal spot To paint the flashing tulip or the meek forget-me-not.

May is lurking in the distance and her lap is filled with flowers, And the choicest of her blossoms very shortly will be ours. There is not a lane so dreary or a field so dark with gloom But that soon will be resplendent with its little touch of bloom. There's an artist keen and eager to make beautiful each scene And remove with colors gorgeous every trace of of what has been.

Oh, the world is now in mourning; round about us all are spread The ruins and the symbols of the winter that is dead. But the bleak and barren picture very shortly now will pass, For the halls of life are ready for their velvet rugs of grass; And the painters now are waiting with their magic to replace This dullness with a beauty that no mortal hand can trace.

The green is in the meadow and the blue is in the sky; The chill of death is passing, life will shortly greet the eye. We shall revel soon in colors only Nature's artists make And the humblest plant that's sleeping unto beauty shall awake. For there's not a leaf forgotten, not a twig neglected there, And the tiniest of pansies shall the royal purple wear.

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THE HAPPIEST DAYS

You do not know it, little man, In your summer coat of tan And your legs bereft of hose And your peeling, sunburned nose, With a stone bruise on your toe, Almost limping as you go Running on your way to play Through another summer day, Friend of birds and streams and trees, That your happiest days are these.

Little do you think to-day, As you hurry to your play, That a lot of us, grown old In the chase for fame and gold, Watch you as you pass along Gayly whistling bits of song, And in envy sit and dream Of a long-neglected stream, Where long buried are the joys We possessed when we were boys.

Little chap, you cannot guess All your sum of happiness; Little value do you place On your sunburned freckled face; And if some shrewd fairy came Offering sums of gold and fame For your summer days of play, You would barter them away And believe that you had made There and then a clever trade.

Time was we were boys like you, Bare of foot and sunburned, too, And, like you, we never guessed All the riches we possessed; We'd have traded them back then For the hollow joys of men; We'd have given them all to be Rich and wise and forty-three. For life never teaches boys Just how precious are their joys.

Youth has fled and we are old. Some of us have fame and gold; Some of us are sorely scarred, For the way of age is hard; And we envy, little man, You your splendid coat of tan, Envy you your treasures rare, Hours of joy beyond compare; For we know, by teaching stern, All that some day you must learn.

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THE REAL BAIT

To gentle ways I am inclined; I have no wish to kill. To creatures dumb I would be kind; I like them all, but still Right now I think I'd like to be Beside some rippling brook, And grab a worm I'd brought with me And slip him on a hook.

I'd like to put my hand once more Into a rusty can And turn those squirmy creatures o'er Like nuggets in a pan; And for a big one, once again, With eager eyes I'd look, As did a boy I knew, and then Impale it on a hook.

I've had my share of fishing joy, I've fished with patent bait, With chub and minnow, but the boy Is lord of sport's estate. And no such pleasure comes to man So rare as when he took A worm from a tomato can And slipped it on a hook.

I'd like to gaze with glowing eyes Upon that precious bait, To view each fat worm as a prize To be accounted great. And though I've passed from boyhood's term, And opened age's book, I still would like to put a worm That wriggled on a hook.

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TRUE NOBILITY