A Heap O Livin | Page 9

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 half-hearted work;?It weakens the efforts of artisans clever,?And makes of the toiler an indolent shirk.?It poisons the soul of the man with a vision,?It stifles in infancy many a plan;?It greets honest toiling with open derision?And mocks at the hopes and the dreams of a?man.
Can't is a word none should speak without
blushing;?To utter it should be a symbol of shame;?Ambition and courage it daily is crushing;?It blights a man's purpose and shortens his?aim.?Despise it with all of your hatred of error;?Refuse it the lodgment it seeks in your brain;?Arm against it as a creature of terror,?And all that you dream of you some day shall?gain.
Can't is the word that is foe to ambition,?An enemy ambushed to shatter your will;?Its prey is forever the man with a mission?And bows but to courage and patience and?skill.?Hate it, with hatred that's deep and undying,?For once it is welcomed 'twill break any?man;?Whatever the goal you are seeking, keep trying?And answer this demon by saying: "I can."
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
_Written July 22, 1916, when the?world lost its "Poet of Childhood."_
There must be great rejoicin' on the Golden
Shore to-day,?An' the big an' little angels must be feelin'
mighty gay:?Could we look beyond the curtain now I fancy
we should see?Old Aunt Mary waitin', smilin', for the coming
that's to be,?An' Little Orphant Annie an' the whole excited
pack?Dancin' up an' down an' shoutin': "Mr. Riley's
comin' back!"
There's a heap o' real sadness in this good old
world to-day;?There are lumpy throats this morning now that
Riley's gone away;?There's a voice now stilled forever that in
sweetness only spoke?An' whispered words of courage with a faith that
never broke.?There is much of joy and laughter that we
mortals here will lack,?But the angels must be happy now that Riley's
comin' back.
The world was gettin' dreary, there was too
much sigh an' frown?In this vale o' mortal strivin', so God sent Jim
Riley down,?An' He said: "Go there an' cheer 'em in your
good old-fashioned way,?With your songs of tender sweetness, but don't
make your plans to stay,?Coz you're needed up in Heaven. I am lendin'
you to men?Just to help 'em with your music, but I'll want
you back again."
An' Riley came, an' mortals heard the music of
his voice?An' they caught his songs o' beauty an' they
started to rejoice;?An' they leaned on him in sorrow, an' they
shared with him their joys,?An' they walked with him the pathways that
they knew when they were boys.?But the heavenly angels missed him, missed his
tender, gentle knack?Of makin' people happy, an'