Part 10

Three tiny steps you took, and then, Disaster and dismay! Your over-confidence had led Your little feet astray. You did not see what we could see Nor fear what us alarms; You stumbled, but ere you could fall I caught you in my arms.

You little tyke, in days to come You'll bravely walk alone, And you may have to wander paths Where dangers lurk unknown. And, Oh, I pray that then, as now, When accidents befall You'll still remember that I'm near To save you from a fall.

Signs

It's "be a good boy, Willie," And it's "run away and play, For Santa Claus is coming With his reindeer and his sleigh." It's "mind what mother tells you," And it's "put away your toys, For Santa Claus is coming To the good girls and the boys." Ho, Santa Claus is coming, there is Christmas in the air, And little girls and little boys are good now everywhere.

World-wide the little fellows Now are sweetly saying "please," And "thank you," and "excuse me," And those little pleasantries That good children are supposed to When there's company to hear; And it's just as plain as can be That the Christmas time is near. Ho, it's just as plain as can be that old Santa's on his way, For there are no little children that are really bad to-day.

And when evening shadows lengthen, Every little curly head Now is ready, aye, and willing To be tucked away in bed; Not one begs to stay up longer, Not one even sheds a tear; Ho, the goodness of the children Is a sign that Santa's near. It's wonderful, the goodness of the little tots to-day, When they know that good old Santa has begun to pack his sleigh.

The Family's Homely Man

There never was a family without its homely man, With legs a little longer than the ordinary plan, An' a shock of hair that brush an' comb can't ever straighten out, An' hands that somehow never seem to know what they're about; The one with freckled features and a nose that looks as though It was fashioned by the youngsters from a chunk of mother's dough. You know the man I'm thinking of, the homely one an' plain, That fairly oozes kindness like a rosebush dripping rain. His face is never much to see, but back of it there lies A heap of love and tenderness and judgment, sound and wise.

And so I sing the homely man that's sittin' in his chair, And pray that every family will always have him there. For looks don't count for much on earth; it's hearts that wear the gold; An' only that is ugly which is selfish, cruel, cold. The family needs him, Oh, so much; more, maybe, than they know; Folks seldom guess a man's real worth until he has to go, But they will miss a heap of love an' tenderness the day God beckons to their homely man, an' he must go away.

He's found in every family, it doesn't matter where They live or be they rich or poor, the homely man is there. You'll find him sitting quiet-like and sort of drawn apart, As though he felt he shouldn't be where folks are fine an' smart. He likes to hide himself away, a watcher of the fun, An' seldom takes a leading part when any game's begun. But when there's any task to do, like need for extra chairs, I've noticed it's the homely man that always climbs the stairs.

And always it's the homely man that happens in to mend The little toys the youngsters break, for he's the children's friend. And he's the one that sits all night to watch beside the dead, And sends the worn-out sorrowers and broken hearts to bed. The family wouldn't be complete without him night or day, To smooth the little troubles out and drive the cares away.

When Mother Cooked With Wood

I do not quarrel with the gas, Our modern range is fine, The ancient stove was doomed to pass From Time's grim firing line, Yet now and then there comes to me The thought of dinners good And pies and cake that used to be When mother cooked with wood.

The axe has vanished from the yard, The chopping block is gone, There is no pile of cordwood hard For boys to work upon; There is no box that must be filled Each morning to the hood; Time in its ruthlessness has willed The passing of the wood.

And yet those days were fragrant days And spicy days and rare; The kitchen knew a cheerful blaze And friendliness was there. And every appetite was keen For breakfasts that were good When I had scarcely turned thirteen And mother cooked with wood.

I used to dread my daily chore, I used to think it tough When mother at the kitchen door Said I'd not chopped enough. And on her baking days, I know, I shirked whene'er I could In that now happy long ago When mother cooked with wood.

I never thought I'd wish to see That pile of wood again; Back then it only seemed to me A source of care and pain. But now I'd gladly give my all To stand where once I stood, If those rare days I could recall When mother cooked with wood.

Midnight in the Pantry

You can boast your round of pleasures, praise the sound of popping corks, Where the orchestra is playing to the rattle of the forks; And your after-opera dinner you may think superbly fine, But that can't compare, I'm certain, to the joy that's always mine When I reach my little dwelling--source, of all sincere delight-- And I prowl around the pantry in the waning hours of night.

When my business, or my pleasure, has detained me until late, And it's midnight, say, or after, when I reach my own estate, Though I'm weary with my toiling I don't hustle up to bed, For the inner man is hungry and he's anxious to be fed; Then I feel a thrill of glory from my head down to my feet As I prowl around the pantry after something good to eat.

Oft I hear a call above me: "Goodness gracious, come to bed!" And I know that I've disturbed her by my overeager tread, But I've found a glass of jelly and some bread and butter, too, And a bit of cold fried chicken and I answer: "When I'm through!" Oh, there's no cafe that better serves my precious appetite Than the pantry in our kitchen when I get home late at night.

You may boast your shining silver, and the linen and the flowers, And the music and the laughter and the lights that hang in showers; You may have your cafe table with its brilliant array, But it doesn't charm yours truly when I'm on my homeward way; For a greater joy awaits me, as I hunger for a bite-- Just the joy of pantry-prowling in the middle of the night.

The World Is Against Me

"The world is against me," he said with a sigh. "Somebody stops every scheme that I try. The world has me down and it's keeping me there; I don't get a chance. Oh, the world is unfair! When a fellow is poor then he can't get a show; The world is determined to keep him down low."

"What of Abe Lincoln?" I asked. "Would you say That he was much richer than you are to-day? He hadn't your chance of making his mark, And his outlook was often exceedingly dark; Yet he clung to his purpose with courage most grim And he got to the top. Was the world against him?"

"What of Ben Franklin? I've oft heard it said That many a time he went hungry to bed. He started with nothing but courage to climb, But patiently struggled and waited his time. He dangled awhile from real poverty's limb, Yet he got to the top. Was the world against him?

"I could name you a dozen, yes, hundreds, I guess, Of poor boys who've patiently climbed to success; All boys who were down and who struggled alone, Who'd have thought themselves rich if your fortune they'd known; Yet they rose in the world you're so quick to condemn, And I'm asking you now, was the world against them?"

Bribed