A Heap O Livin | Page 5

ahead a peddler and his
cart.
"You'd better toot your horn," says she, "to let
him know we're near;
He might turn out!" and Pa replies: "Just
shriek at him, my dear."
And then he adds: "Some day, some guy will

make a lot of dough
By putting horns on tonneau seats for
womenfolks
to blow!"
A little farther on Ma cries: "He signaled for
a turn!"
And Pa says: "Did he?" in a tone that's hot
enough to burn.
"Oh, there's a boy on roller skates!" cries Ma.
"Now do go slow.
I'm sure he doesn't see our car." And Pa says:
"I dunno,
I think I don't need glasses yet, but really it
may be
That I am blind and cannot see what's right
in front of me."
If Pa should speed the car a bit some rigs to
hurry past
Ma whispers: "Do be careful now. You're
driving much too fast."
And all the time she's pointing out the
dangers
of the street
And keeps him posted on the roads where
trolley cars he'll meet.
Last night when we got safely home, Pa sighed
and said: "My dear,
I'm sure we've all enjoyed the drive you gave
us from the rear!"
ON GOING HOME FOR CHRISTMAS
He little knew the sorrow that was in his vacant

chair;
He never guessed they'd miss him, or he'd
surely have been there;
He couldn't see his mother or the lump that
filled her throat,
Or the tears that started falling as she read
his hasty note;
And he couldn't see his father, sitting sorrowful
and dumb,
Or he never would have written that he thought
he couldn't come.
He little knew the gladness that his presence
would have made,
And the joy it would have given, or he never
would have stayed.
He didn't know how hungry had the little
mother grown
Once again to see her baby and to claim him
for her own.
He didn't guess the meaning of his visit
Christmas Day
Or he never would have written that he
couldn't get away.
He couldn't see the fading of the cheeks that
once were pink,
And the silver in the tresses; and he didn't
stop to think
How the years are passing swiftly, and next
Christmas it might be
There would be no home to visit and no mother
dear to see.
He didn't think about it -- I'll not say he didn't
care.
He was heedless and forgetful or he'd surely

have been there.
Are you going home for Christmas? Have you
written you'll be there?
Going home to kiss the mother and to show
her that you care?
Going home to greet the father in a way to
make him glad?
If you're not I hope there'll never come a time
you'll wish you had.
Just sit down and write a letter -- it will make
their heart strings hum
With a tune of perfect gladness -- if you'll tell
them that you'll come.
AT SUGAR CAMP
At Sugar Camp the cook is kind
And laughs the laugh we knew as
boys;
And there we slip away and find
Awaiting us the old-time
joys.
The catbird calls the selfsame way
She used to in the long ago,

And there's a chorus all the day
Of songsters it is good to know.
The killdeer in the distance cries;
The thrasher, in her garb of brown,

From tree to tree in gladness flies.
Forgotten is the world's renown,

Forgotten are the years we've known;
At Sugar Camp there are no
men;
We've ceased to strive for things to own;
We're in the woods
as boys again.
Our pride is in the strength of trees,
Our pomp the pomp of living
things;
Our ears are tuned to melodies
That every feathered
songster sings.
At Sugar Camp our noonday meal
Is eaten in the
open air,
Where through the leaves the sunbeams steal
And simple
is our bill of fare.
At Sugar Camp in peace we dwell
And none is boastful of himself;


None plots to gain with shot and shell
His neighbor's bit of land or
pelf.
The roar of cannon isn't heard,
There stilled is money's
tempting voice;
Someone detects a new-come bird
And at her
presence all rejoice.
At Sugar Camp the cook is kind;
His steak is broiling o'er the coals

And in its sputtering we find
Sweet harmony for tired souls.
There,
sheltered by the friendly trees,
As boys we sit to eat our meal,
And,
brothers to the birds and bees,
We hold communion with the real.
HOME
It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it
home,
A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes
have t' roam
Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye lef'
behind,
An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus
on yer mind.
It don't make any differunce how rich ye get
t' be,
How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great
yer luxury;
It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a
king,
Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped round
everything.
Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up
in a minute;
Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin'