A Heap O Livin | Page 9

lead him round the
paths we used to go?
For it's charge, charge, charge,
And it's face
the foe once more;
Forget the things you love the most
And keep
your mind on gore.
FATHER

Used to wonder just why father
Never had much time for play,

Used to wonder why he'd rather
Work each minute of the day.
Used
to wonder why he never
Loafed along the road an' shirked;
Can't
recall a time whenever
Father played while others worked.
Father didn't dress in fashion,
Sort of hated clothing new;
Style with
him was not a passion;
He had other things in view.
Boys are blind
to much that's going
On about 'em day by day,
And I had no way of
knowing
What became of father's pay.
All I knew was when I needed
Shoes I got 'em on the spot;

Everything for which I pleaded,
Somehow, father always got.

Wondered, season after season,
Why he never took a rest,
And that
_I_ might be the reason
Then I never even guessed.
Father set a store on knowledge;
If he'd lived to have his way
He'd
have sent me off to college
And the bills been glad to pay.
That, I
know, was his ambition:
Now and then he used to say
He'd have
done his earthly mission
On my graduation day.
Saw his cheeks were getting paler,
Didn't understand just why;
Saw
his body growing frailer,
Then at last I saw him die.
Rest had come!
His tasks were ended,
Calm was written on his brow;
Father's life
was big and splendid,
And I understand it now.
LADDIES
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.
THE LIVING BEAUTIES
I never knew, until they went,
How much their laughter really meant

I never knew how much the place
Depended on each little face;

How barren home could be and drear
Without its living beauties here.
I never knew that chairs and books
Could wear such sad and solemn
looks!
That rooms and halls could be at night
So still and drained of
all delight.
This home is now but brick and board
Where bits of
furniture are stored.
I used to think I loved each shelf
And room for what it was itself.

And once I thought each picture fine
Because I proudly called it mine.

But now I know they mean no more
Than art works hanging in a
store.
Until they went away to roam
I never knew what made it home.
But
I have learned that all is base,
However wonderful the place
And
decked with costly treasures, rare,
Unless the living joys are there.
AT BREAKFAST TIME
My Pa he eats his breakfast in a funny sort of
way:
We hardly ever see him at the first meal of the
day.
Ma puts his food before him and he settles in
his place
An' then he props the paper up and we can't
see his face;
We hear him blow his coffee and we hear him
chew his toast,
But it's for the morning paper that he seems

to care the most.
Ma says that little children mighty grateful
ought to be
To the folks that fixed the evening as the proper
time for tea.
She says if meals were only served to people
once a day,
An' that was in the morning just before Pa goes
away,
We'd never know how father looked when he
was in his place,
Coz he'd always have the morning paper stuck
before his face.
He drinks his coffee steamin' hot, an' passes
Ma his cup
To have it filled a second time, an' never once
looks up.
He never has a word to say, but just sits there
an' reads,
An' when she sees his hand stuck out Ma gives
him what he needs.
She guesses what it is he wants, coz it's no use
to ask:
Pa's got to read his paper an' sometimes that's
quite a task.
One morning we had breakfast an' his features
we could see,
But his face was long an' solemn an' he didn't
speak to me,
An' we couldn't get him laughin' an' we couldn't
make him smile,
An' he said the toast was soggy an' the coffee

simply vile.
Then Ma said: "What's the matter? Why are
you so cross an' glum?"
An' Pa 'most took her head off coz the paper
didn't come.
CAN'T
Can't is the worst word that's written or
spoken;
Doing more harm here than slander and lies;
On it is many
a strong spirit broken,
And with it many a good purpose dies.
It
springs from the lips of the thoughtless each
morning
And robs us of courage we need through the
day:
It rings
in our ears like a timely-sent warning
And laughs when we falter and
fall by the
way.
Can't is the father of feeble endeavor,
The parent of terror and