A Heap O Livin | Page 8

come his way,?Silent whenever the harsh condemn,?And bearing it all for the love of them.
Only a dad but he gives his all,?To smooth the way for his children small,?Doing with courage stern and grim?The deeds that his father did for him.?This is the line that for him I pen:?Only a dad, but the best of men.
HARD KNOCKS
I'm not the man to say that failure's sweet,?Nor tell a chap to laugh when things go?wrong;?I know it hurts to have to take defeat?An' no one likes to lose before a throng;?It isn't very pleasant not to win?When you have done the very best you could;?But if you're down, get up an' buckle in --?A lickin' often does a fellow good.
I've seen some chaps who never knew their
power?Until somebody knocked 'em to the floor;?I've known men who discovered in an hour?A courage they had never shown before.?I've seen 'em rise from failure to the top?By doin' things they hadn't understood?Before the day disaster made 'em drop --?A lickin' often does a fellow good.
Success is not the teacher, wise an' true,?That gruff old failure is, remember that;?She's much too apt to make a fool of you,?Which isn't true of blows that knock you flat.?Hard knocks are painful things an' hard to bear,?An' most of us would dodge 'em if we could;?There's something mighty broadening in care --?A lickin' often does a fellow good.
SPRING IN THE TRENCHES
It's coming time for planting in that little patch
of ground,?Where the lad and I made merry as he followed
me around;?Now the sun is getting higher, and the skies
above are blue,?And I'm hungry for the garden, and I wish the
war was through.?But it's tramp, tramp, tramp,?And it's never look behind,?And when you see a stranger's kids?Pretend that you are blind.
The spring is coming back again, the birds
begin to mate;?The skies are full of kindness, but the world is
full of hate.?And it's I that should be bending now in peace
above the soil?With laughing eyes and little hands about to
bless the toil.?But it's fight, fight, fight,?And it's charge at double-quick;?A soldier thinking thoughts of home?Is one more soldier sick.
Last year I brought the bulbs to bloom and
saw the roses bud;?This year I'm ankle deep in mire, and most of
it is blood.?Last year the mother in the door was glad as
she could be;?To-day her heart is full of pain, and mine is
hurting me.?But it's shoot, shoot, shoot,?And when the bullets hiss,?Don't let the tears fill up your eyes,?For weeping soldiers miss.
Oh, who will tend the roses now and who will
sow the seeds??And who will do the heavy work the little
garden needs??And who will tell the lad of mine the things
he wants to know,?And take his hand and 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