Part 11

I know that what I did was wrong; I should have sent you far away. You tempted me, and I'm not strong; I tried but couldn't answer nay. I should have packed you off to bed; Instead I let you stay awhile, And mother scolded when I said That you had bribed me with your smile.

And yesterday I gave to you Another piece of chocolate cake, Some red-ripe watermelon, too, And that gave you the stomach ache. And that was after I'd been told You'd had enough, you saucy miss; You tempted me, you five-year-old, And bribed me with a hug and kiss.

And mother said I mustn't get You roller skates, yet here they are; I haven't dared to tell her yet; Some time, she says, I'll go too far. I gave my word I wouldn't buy These things, for accidents she fears; Now I must tell, when questioned why, Just how you bribed me with your tears.

I've tried so hard to do the right, Yet I have broken every vow. I let you do, most every night, The things your mother won't allow. I know that I am doing wrong, Yet all my sense of honor flies, The moment that you come along And bribe me with those wondrous eyes.

The Home Builders

The world is filled with bustle and with selfishness and greed, It is filled with restless people that are dreaming of a deed. You can read it in their faces; they are dreaming of the day When they'll come to fame and fortune and put all their cares away. And I think as I behold them, though it's far indeed they roam, They will never find contentment save they seek for it at home.

I watch them as they hurry through the surging lines of men, Spurred to speed by grim ambition, and I know they're dreaming then. They are weary, sick and footsore, but their goal seems far away, And it's little they've accomplished at the ending of the day. It is rest they're vainly seeking, love and laughter in the gloam, But they'll never come to claim it, save they claim it here at home.

For the peace that is the sweetest isn't born of minted gold, And the joy that lasts the longest and still lingers when we're old Is no dim and distant pleasure--it is not to-morrow's prize, It is not the end of toiling, or the rainbow of our sighs. It' is every day within us--all the rest is hippodrome-- And the soul that is the gladdest is the soul that builds a home.

They are fools who build for glory! They are fools who pin their hopes On the come and go of battles or some vessel's slender ropes. They shall sicken and shall wither and shall never peace attain Who believe that real contentment only men victorious gain. For the only happy toilers under earth's majestic dome Are the ones who find their glories in the little spot called home.

My Books and I

My books and I are good old pals: My laughing books are gay, Just suited for my merry moods When I am wont to play. Bill Nye comes down to joke with me And, Oh, the joy he spreads. Just like two fools we sit and laugh And shake our merry heads.

When I am in a thoughtful mood, With Stevenson I sit, Who seems to know I've had enough Of Bill Nye and his wit. And so, more thoughtful than I am, He talks of lofty things, And thus an evening hour we spend Sedate and grave as kings.

And should my soul be torn with grief Upon my shelf I find A little volume, torn and thumbled, For comfort just designed. I take my little Bible down And read its pages o'er, And when I part from it I find I'm stronger than before.

Success

I hold no dream of fortune vast, Nor seek undying fame. I do not ask when life is past That many know my name.

I may not own the skill to rise To glory's topmost height, Nor win a place among the wise, But I can keep the right.

And I can live my life on earth Contented to the end, If but a few shall know my worth And proudly call me friend.

Questions

Would you sell your boy for a stack of gold? Would you miss that hand that is yours to hold? Would you take a fortune and never see The man, in a few brief years, he'll be? Suppose that his body were racked with pain, How much would you pay for his health again?

Is there money enough in the world to-day To buy your boy? Could a monarch pay You silver and gold in so large a sum That you'd have him blinded or stricken dumb? How much would you take, if you had the choice, Never to hear, in this world, his voice?

How much would you take in exchange for all The joy that is wrapped in that youngster small? Are there diamonds enough in the mines of earth To equal your dreams of that youngster's worth? Would you give up the hours that he's on your knee The richest man in the world to be?

You may prate of gold, but your fortune lies, And you know it well, in your boy's bright eyes. And there's nothing that money can buy or do That means so much as that boy to you. Well, which does the most of your time employ, The chase for gold--or that splendid boy?

Sausage

You may brag about your breakfast foods you eat at break of day, Your crisp, delightful shavings and your stack of last year's hay, Your toasted flakes of rye and corn that fairly swim in cream, Or rave about a sawdust mash, an epicurean dream. But none of these appeals to me, though all of them I've tried-- The breakfast that I liked the best was sausage mother fried.

Old country sausage was its name; the kind, of course, you know, The little links that seemed to be almost as white as snow, But turned unto a ruddy brown, while sizzling in the pan; Oh, they were made both to appease and charm the inner man. All these new-fangled dishes make me blush and turn aside, When I think about the sausage that for breakfast mother fried.

When they roused me from my slumbers and I left to do the chores, It wasn't long before I breathed a fragrance out of doors That seemed to grip my spirit, and to thrill my body through, For the spice of hunger tingled, and 'twas then I plainly knew That the gnawing at my stomach would be quickly satisfied By a plate of country sausage that my dear old mother fried.

There upon the kitchen table, with its cloth of turkey red, Was a platter heaped with sausage and a plate of home-made bread, And a cup of coffee waiting--not a puny demitasse That can scarcely hold a mouthful, but a cup of greater class; And I fell to eating largely, for I could not be denied-- Oh, I'm sure a king would relish the sausage mother fried.

Times have changed and so have breakfasts; now each morning when I see A dish of shredded something or of flakes passed up to me, All my thoughts go back to boyhood, to the days of long ago, When the morning meal meant something more than vain and idle show. And I hunger, Oh, I hunger, in a way I cannot hide, For a plate of steaming sausage like the kind my mother fried.