Part 3

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ON GOING HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

He little knew the sorrow that was in his vacant chair; He never guessed they'd miss him, or he'd surely have been there; He couldn't see his mother or the lump that filled her throat, Or the tears that started falling as she read his hasty note; And he couldn't see his father, sitting sorrowful and dumb, Or he never would have written that he thought he couldn't come.

He little knew the gladness that his presence would have made, And the joy it would have given, or he never would have stayed. He didn't know how hungry had the little mother grown Once again to see her baby and to claim him for her own. He didn't guess the meaning of his visit Christmas Day Or he never would have written that he couldn't get away.

He couldn't see the fading of the cheeks that once were pink, And the silver in the tresses; and he didn't stop to think How the years are passing swiftly, and next Christmas it might be There would be no home to visit and no mother dear to see. He didn't think about it--I'll not say he didn't care. He was heedless and forgetful or he'd surely have been there.

Are you going home for Christmas? Have you written you'll be there? Going home to kiss the mother and to show her that you care? Going home to greet the father in a way to make him glad? If you're not I hope there'll never come a time you'll wish you had. Just sit down and write a letter--it will make their heart strings hum With a tune of perfect gladness--if you'll tell them that you'll come.

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AT SUGAR CAMP

At Sugar Camp the cook is kind And laughs the laugh we knew as boys; And there we slip away and find Awaiting us the old-time joys. The catbird calls the selfsame way She used to in the long ago, And there's a chorus all the day Of songsters it is good to know.

The killdeer in the distance cries; The thrasher, in her garb of brown, From tree to tree in gladness flies. Forgotten is the world's renown, Forgotten are the years we've known; At Sugar Camp there are no men; We've ceased to strive for things to own; We're in the woods as boys again.

Our pride is in the strength of trees, Our pomp the pomp of living things; Our ears are tuned to melodies That every feathered songster sings. At Sugar Camp our noonday meal Is eaten in the open air, Where through the leaves the sunbeams steal And simple is our bill of fare.

At Sugar Camp in peace we dwell And none is boastful of himself; None plots to gain with shot and shell His neighbor's bit of land or pelf. The roar of cannon isn't heard, There stilled is money's tempting voice; Someone detects a new-come bird And at her presence all rejoice.

At Sugar Camp the cook is kind; His steak is broiling o'er the coals And in its sputtering we find Sweet harmony for tired souls. There, sheltered by the friendly trees, As boys we sit to eat our meal, And, brothers to the birds and bees, We hold communion with the real.

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HOME

It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home, A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes have t' roam Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye lef' behind, An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus on yer mind. It don't make any differunce how rich ye get t' be, How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great yer luxury; It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king, Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped round everything.

Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute; Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin' in it; Within the walls there's got t' be some babies born, and then Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women good, an' men; And gradjerly as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn't part With anything they ever used--they've grown into yer heart: The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumb-marks on the door.

Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t' sit an' sigh An' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know that Death is nigh; An' in the stillness o' the night t' see Death's angel come, An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave her sweet voice dumb. Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an' when yer tears are dried, Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an' sanctified; An' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant memories O' her that was an' is no more--ye can't escape from these.

Ye've got t' sing an' dance fer years, ye've got t' romp an' play, An' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em each day; Even the roses 'round the porch must blossom year by year Afore they 'come a part o' ye, suggestin' someone dear Who used t' love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em jes t' run The way they do, so's they would get the early mornin' sun; Ye've got t' love each brick an' stone from cellar up t' dome: It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home.

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THE PATH THAT LEADS TO HOME

The little path that leads to home, That is the road for me, I know no finer path to roam, With finer sights to see. With thoroughfares the world is lined That lead to wonders new, But he who treads them leaves behind The tender things and true.

Oh, north and south and east and west The crowded roadways go, And sweating brow and weary breast Are all they seem to know. And mad for pleasure some are bent, And some are seeking fame, And some are sick with discontent, And some are bruised and lame.

Across the world the gleaming steel Holds out its lure for men, But no one finds his comfort real Till he comes home again. And charted lanes now line the sea For weary hearts to roam, But, Oh, the finest path to me Is that which leads to home.

'Tis there I come to laughing eyes And find a welcome true; 'Tis there all care behind me lies And joy is ever new. And, Oh, when every day is done Upon that little street, A pair of rosy youngsters run To me with flying feet.

The world with myriad paths is lined But one alone for me, One little road where I may find The charms I want to see. Though thoroughfares majestic call The multitude to roam, I would not leave, to know them all, The path that leads to home.

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A FRIEND'S GREETING