Part 19

I would rather be the daddy Of a romping, roguish crew, Of a bright-eyed chubby laddie And a little girl or two, Than the monarch of a nation In his high and lofty seat Taking empty adoration From the subjects at his feet.

I would rather own their kisses As at night to me they run, Than to be the king who misses All the simpler forms of fun. When his dreary day is ending He is dismally alone, But when my sun is descending There are joys for me to own.

He may ride to horns and drumming; I must walk a quiet street, But when once they see me coming Then on joyous, flying feet They come racing to me madly And I catch them with a swing And I say it proudly, gladly, That I'm happier than a king.

You may talk of lofty places, You may boast of pomp and power, Men may turn their eager faces To the glory of an hour, But give me the humble station With its joys that long survive, For the daddies of the nation Are the happiest men alive.

Loafing

Under the shade of trees, Flat on my back at ease, Lulled by the hum of bees, There's where I rest; Breathing the scented air, Lazily loafing there, Never a thought of care, Peace in my breast.

There where the waters run, Laughing along in fun, I go when work is done, There's where I stray; Couch of a downy green, Restful and sweet and clean, Set in a fairy scene, Wondrously gay.

Worn out with toil and strife, Sick of the din of life, With pain and sorrow rife, There's where I go; Soothing and sweet I find, Comforts that ease the mind, Leaving dull care behind, Rest there I know.

Flat on my back I lie, Watching the ships go by, Under the fleecy sky, Day dreaming there; From grief I find surcease, From worry gain release, Resting in perfect peace, Free from all care.

When Father Played Baseball

The smell of arnica is strong, And mother's time is spent In rubbing father's arms and back With burning liniment. The house is like a druggist's shop; Strong odors fill the hall, And day and night we hear him groan, Since father played baseball.

He's forty past, but he declared That he was young as ever; And in his youth, he said, he was A baseball player clever. So when the business men arranged A game, they came to call On dad and asked him if he thought That he could play baseball.

"I haven't played in fifteen years," Said father, "but I know That I can stop the grounders hot, And I can make the throw. I used to play a corking game; The curves, I know them all; And you can count on me, you bet, To join your game of ball."

On Saturday the game was played, And all of us were there; Dad borrowed an old uniform, That Casey used to wear. He paid three dollars for a glove, Wore spikes to save a fall He had the make-up on all right, When father played baseball.

At second base they stationed him; A liner came his way; Dad tried to stop it with his knee, And missed a double play. He threw into the bleachers twice, He let a pop fly fall; Oh, we were all ashamed of him, When father played baseball.

He tried to run, but tripped and fell, He tried to take a throw; It put three fingers out of joint, And father let it go. He stopped a grounder with his face; Was spiked, nor was that all; It looked to us like suicide, When father played baseball.

At last he limped away, and now He suffers in disgrace; His arms are bathed in liniment; Court plaster hides his face. He says his back is breaking, and His legs won't move at all; It made a wreck of father when He tried to play baseball.

The smell of arnica abounds; He hobbles with a cane; A row of blisters mar his hands; He is in constant pain. But lame and weak as father is, He swears he'll lick us all If we dare even speak about The day he played baseball.

About Boys

Show me the boy who never threw A stone at someone's cat; Or never hurled a snowball swift At someone's high silk hat. Who never ran away from school, To seek the swimming hole; Or slyly from a neighbor's yard Green apples never stole. Show me the boy who never broke A pane of window glass; Who never disobeyed the sign That says: "Keep off the grass." Who never did a thousand things, That grieve us sore to tell; And I'll show you a little boy Who must be far from well.

Curly Locks

Curly locks, what do you know of the world, And what do your brown eyes see? Has your baby mind been able to find One thread of the mystery? Do you know of the sorrow and pain that lie In the realms that you've never seen? Have you even guessed of the great unrest In the world where you've never been?

Curly locks, what do you know of the world And what do you see in the skies? When you solemnly stare at the world out there Can you see where the future lies? What wonderful thoughts are you thinking now? Can it be that you really know That beyond your youth there are joy and ruth, On the way that you soon must go?

Baby's Got a Tooth

The telephone rang in my office to-day, as it often has tinkled before. I turned in my chair in a half-grouchy way, for a telephone call is a bore; And I thought, "It is somebody wanting to know the distance from here to Pekin." In a tone that was gruff I shouted "Hello," a sign for the talk to begin. "What is it?" I asked in a terrible way. I was huffy, to tell you the truth, Then over the wire I heard my wife say: "The baby, my dear, has a tooth!"

I have seen a man jump when the horse that he backed finished first in a well-driven race. I have heard the man cheer, as a matter of fact, and I've seen the blood rush to his face; I've been on the spot when good news has come in and I've witnessed expressions of glee That range from a yell to a tilt of the chin; and some things have happened to me That have thrilled me with joy from my toes to my head, but never from earliest youth Have I jumped with delight as I did when she said, "The baby, my dear, has a tooth."

I have answered the telephone thousands of times for messages both good and bad; I've received the reports of most horrible crimes, and news that was cheerful or sad; I've been telephoned this and been telephoned that, a joke, or an errand to run; I've been called to the phone for the idlest of chat, when there was much work to be done; But never before have I realized quite the thrill of a message, forsooth, Till over the wire came these words that I write, "The baby, my dear, has a tooth."

Home and the Baby