Part 7

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

Written July 22, 1916, when the world lost its "Poet of Childhood."

There must be great rejoicin' on the Golden Shore to-day, An' the big an' little angels must be feelin' mighty gay: Could we look beyond the curtain now I fancy we should see Old Aunt Mary waitin', smilin', for the coming that's to be, An' Little Orphant Annie an' the whole excited pack Dancin' up an' down an' shoutin': "Mr. Riley's comin' back!"

There's a heap o' real sadness in this good old world to-day; There are lumpy throats this morning now that Riley's gone away; There's a voice now stilled forever that in sweetness only spoke An' whispered words of courage with a faith that never broke. There is much of joy and laughter that we mortals here will lack, But the angels must be happy now that Riley's comin' back.

The world was gettin' dreary, there was too much sigh an' frown In this vale o' mortal strivin', so God sent Jim Riley down, An' He said: "Go there an' cheer 'em in your good old-fashioned way, With your songs of tender sweetness, but don't make your plans to stay, Coz you're needed up in Heaven. I am lendin' you to men Just to help 'em with your music, but I'll want you back again."

An' Riley came, an' mortals heard the music of his voice An' they caught his songs o' beauty an' they started to rejoice; An' they leaned on him in sorrow, an' they shared with him their joys, An' they walked with him the pathways that they knew when they were boys. But the heavenly angels missed him, missed his tender, gentle knack Of makin' people happy, an' they wanted Riley back.

There must be great rejoicin' on the streets of Heaven to-day An' all the angel children must be troopin' down the way, Singin' heavenly songs of welcome an' preparin' now to greet The soul that God had tinctured with an ever-lasting sweet; The world is robed in sadness an' is draped in sombre black; But joy must reign in Heaven now that Riley's comin' back.

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RESULTS AND ROSES

The man who wants a garden fair, Or small or very big, With flowers growing here and there, Must bend his back and dig.

The things are mighty few on earth That wishes can attain. Whate'er we want of any worth We've got to work to gain.

It matters not what goal you seek Its secret here reposes: You've got to dig from week to week To get Results or Roses.

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THE OTHER FELLOW

Are you fond of your wife and your children fair? So is the other fellow. Do you crave pleasures for them to share? So does the other fellow. Does your heart rejoice when your own are glad? And are you troubled when they are sad? Well, it's that way, too, in this life, my lad, That way with the other fellow.

Do you want the best for your own to know? So does the other fellow. Do you stoop to kiss them before you go? So does the other fellow. When your baby lies on a fevered bed, Does your heart run cold with a silent dread? Well, it's that way, too, where all mortals tread-- That way with the other fellow.

Does it hurt when they want what you cannot buy? It does with the other fellow. Do you for their comfort yourself deny? So does the other fellow. Would you wail aloud if your babe should die For the lack of care you could not supply? Well, it's that way, too, as he travels by, That way with the other fellow.

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OUR DUTY TO OUR FLAG

Less hate and greed Is what we need And more of service true; More men to love The flag above And keep it first in view.

Less boast and brag About the flag, More faith in what it means; More heads erect, More self-respect, Less talk of war machines.

The time to fight To keep it bright Is not along the way, Nor 'cross the foam, But here at home Within ourselves--to-day.

'Tis we must love That flag above With all our might and main; For from our hands, Not distant lands, Shall come dishonor's stain.

If that flag be Dishonored, we Have done it, not the foe; If it shall fall We first of all Shall be to strike a blow.

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THE HUNTER

Cheek that is tanned to the wind of the north. Body that jests at the bite of the cold, Limbs that are eager and strong to go forth Into the wilds and the ways of the bold; Red blood that pulses and throbs in the veins, Ears that love silences better than noise; Strength of the forest and health of the plains; These the rewards that the hunter enjoys.

Forests were ever the cradles of men; Manhood is born of a kinship with trees. Whence shall come brave hearts and stout muscles, when Woods have made way for our cities of ease? Oh, do you wonder that stalwarts return Yearly to hark to the whispering oaks? 'Tis for the brave days of old that they yearn: These are the splendors the hunter invokes.