A Heap O Livin | Page 5

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'
in it;?Within the walls there's got t' be some babies
born, and then?Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women
good, an' men;?And gradjerly as time goes on, ye find ye
wouldn't part?With anything they ever used -- they've grown
into yer heart:?The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the
little shoes they wore?Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumbmarks
on the door.
Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t'
sit an' sigh?An' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know
that Death is nigh;?An' in the stillness o' the night t' see Death's
angel come,?An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave
her sweet voice dumb.?Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an'
when yer tears are dried,?Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an'
sanctified;?An' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant
memories?O' her that was an' is no more -- ye can't escape
from these.
Ye've got t' sing an' dance fer years, ye've got
t' romp an' play,?An' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em
each day;?Even the roses 'round the porch must blossom
year by year?Afore they 'come a part o' ye, suggestin'
someone dear?Who used t' love 'em long