Part 8

And I'm thinking of another that had courage that was fine, And I've often wished in moments that such strength of will were mine. He stood against his comrades, and he left them then and there When they wanted him to join them in a deed that wasn't fair. He stood alone, undaunted, with his little head erect; He would rather take the jeering than to lose his self-respect.

And I know a lot of others that have grown to manhood now, Who have yet to wear the laurel that adorns the victor's brow. They have plodded on in honor through the dusty, dreary ways, They have hungered for life's comforts and the joys of easy days, But they've chosen to be toilers, and in this their splendor's told: They would rather never have it than to do some things for gold.

The Mother's Question

When I was a boy, and it chanced to rain, Mother would always watch for me; She used to stand by the window pane, Worried and troubled as she could be. And this was the question I used to hear, The very minute that I drew near; The words she used, I can't forget: "Tell me, my boy, if your feet are wet."

Worried about me was mother dear, As healthy a lad as ever strolled Over a turnpike, far or near, 'Fraid to death that I'd take a cold. Always stood by the window pane, Watching for me in the pouring rain; And her words in my ears are ringing yet: "Tell me, my boy, if your feet are wet."

Stockings warmed by the kitchen fire, And slippers ready for me to wear; Seemed that mother would never tire, Giving her boy the best of care, Thinking of him the long day through, In the worried way that all mothers do; Whenever it rained she'd start to fret, Always fearing my feet were wet.

And now, whenever it rains, I see A vision of mother in days of yore, Still waiting there to welcome me, As she used to do by the open door. And always I think as I enter there Of a mother's love and a mother's care; Her words in my ears are ringing yet: "Tell me, my boy, if your feet are wet."

The Blue Flannel Shirt

I am eager once more to feel easy, I'm weary of thinking of dress; I'm heartily sick of stiff collars, And trousers the tailor must press. I'm eagerly waiting the glad days-- When fashion will cease to assert What I must put on every morning-- The days of the blue flannel shirt.

I want to get out in the country And rest by the side of the lake; To go a few days without shaving, And give grim old custom the shake. A week's growth of whiskers, I'm thinking, At present my chin wouldn't hurt; And I'm yearning to don those old trousers And loaf in that blue flannel shirt.

You can brag all you like of your fashions, The style of your cutaway coat; You can boast of your tailor-made raiment, And the collar that strangles your throat; But give me the old pair of trousers That seem to improve with the dirt, And let me get back to the comfort That's born of a blue flannel shirt.

Grandpa

My grandpa is the finest man Excep' my pa. My grandpa can Make kites an' carts an' lots of things You pull along the ground with strings, And he knows all the names of birds, And how they call 'thout using words, And where they live and what they eat, And how they build their nests so neat. He's lots of fun! Sometimes all day He comes to visit me and play. You see he's getting old, and so To work he doesn't have to go, And when it isn't raining, he Drops in to have some fun with me.

He takes my hand and we go out And everything we talk about. He tells me how God makes the trees, And why it hurts to pick up bees. Sometimes he stops and shows to me The place where fairies used to be; And then he tells me stories, too, And I am sorry when he's through. When I am asking him for more He says: "Why there's a candy store! Let's us go there and see if they Have got the kind we like to-day." Then when we get back home my ma Says: "You are spoiling Buddy, Pa."

My grandpa is my mother's pa, I guess that's what all grandpas are. And sometimes ma, all smiles, will say: "You didn't always act that way. When I was little, then you said That children should be sent to bed And not allowed to rule the place And lead old folks a merry chase." And grandpa laughs and says: "That's true, That's what I used to say to you. It is a father's place to show The young the way that they should go, But grandpas have a different task, Which is to get them all they ask."

When I get big and old and gray I'm going to spend my time in play; I'm going to be a grandpa, too, And do as all the grandpas do. I'll buy my daughter's children things Like horns and drums and tops with strings, And tell them all about the trees And frogs and fish and birds and bees And fairies in the shady glen And tales of giants, too, and when They beg of me for just one more, I'll take them to the candy store; I'll buy them everything they see The way my grandpa does for me

Pa Did It

The train of cars that Santa brought is out of kilter now; While pa was showing how they went he broke the spring somehow. They used to run around a track--at least they did when he Would let me take them in my hands an' wind 'em with a key. I could 'a' had some fun with 'em, if only they would go, But, gee! I never had a chance, for pa enjoyed em so.

The automobile that I got that ran around the floor Was lots of fun when it was new, but it won't go no more. Pa wound it up for Uncle Jim to show him how it went, And when those two got through with it the runnin' gear was bent, An' now it doesn't go at all. I mustn't grumble though, 'Cause while it was in shape to run my pa enjoyed it so.

I've got my blocks as good as new, my mitts are perfect yet; Although the snow is on the ground I haven't got em wet. I've taken care of everything that Santa brought to me, Except the toys that run about when wound up with a key. But next year you can bet I won't make any such mistake; I'm going to ask for toys an' things that my pa cannot break.

The Real Successes

You think that the failures are many, You think the successes are few, But you judge by the rule of the penny, And not by the good that men do. You judge men by standards of treasure That merely obtain upon earth, When the brother you're snubbing may measure Full-length to God's standard of worth.

The failures are not in the ditches, The failures are not in the ranks, They have missed the acquirement of riches, Their fortunes are not in the banks. Their virtues are never paraded, Their worth is not always in view, But they're fighting their battles unaided, And fighting them honestly, too.

There are failures to-day in high places The failures aren't all in the low; There are rich men with scorn in their faces Whose homes are but castles of woe. The homes that are happy are many, And numberless fathers are true; And this is the standard, if any, By which we must judge what men do.

Wherever loved ones are awaiting The toiler to kiss and caress, Though in Bradstreet's he hasn't a rating, He still is a splendid success. If the dear ones who gather about him And know what he's striving to do Have never a reason to doubt him, Is he less successful than you?

You think that the failures are many, You judge by men's profits in gold; You judge by the rule of the penny-- In this true success isn't told. This falsely man's story is telling, For wealth often brings on distress, But wherever love brightens a dwelling, There lives; rich or poor, a success.

The Sorry Hostess

She said she was sorry the weather was bad The night that she asked us to dine; And she really appeared inexpressibly sad Because she had hoped 'twould be fine. She was sorry to hear that my wife had a cold, And she almost shed tears over that, And how sorry she was, she most feelingly told, That the steam wasn't on in the flat.