A Heap O Livin | Page 7

conclusion,?That wherever they be, on land or sea,?They warm to a home allusion;?That under the skin an' under the hide?There's a spark that starts a-glowin'?Whenever they look at a scene or book?That something of home is showin'.
They may differ in creeds an' politics,?They may argue an' even quarrel,?But their throats grip tight, if they catch a
sight?Of their favorite elm or laurel.?An' the winding lane that they used to tread?With never a care to fret 'em,?Or the pasture gate where they used to wait,?Right under the skin will get 'em.
Now folks is folks on their different ways,?With their different griefs an' pleasures,?But the home they knew, when their years were
few,?Is the dearest of all their treasures.?An' the richest man to the poorest waif?Right under the skin is brother?When they stand an' sigh, with a tear-dimmed
eye,?At a thought of the dear old mother.
It makes no difference where it may be,?Nor the fortunes that years may alter,?Be they simple or wise, the old home ties?Make all of 'em often falter.?Time may robe 'em in sackcloth coarse?Or garb 'em in gorgeous splendor,?But whatever their lot, they keep one spot?Down deep that is sweet an' tender.
We was speakin' of folks, jes' common folks,?An' we come to this conclusion,?That one an' all, be they great or small,?Will warm to a home allusion;?That under the skin an' the beaten hide?They're kin in a real affection?For the joys they knew, when their years were
few,?An' the home of their recollection.
LITTLE MASTER MISCHIEVOUS
Little Master Mischievous, that's the name for
you;?There's no better title that describes the things
you do:?Into something all the while where you
shouldn't be,?Prying into matters that are not for you to see;?Little Master Mischievous, order's overthrown?If your mother leaves you for a minute all
alone.
Little Master Mischievous, opening every door,?Spilling books and papers round about the parlor
floor,?Scratching all the tables and marring all the
chairs,?Climbing where you shouldn't climb and tumbling
down the stairs.?How'd you get the ink well? We can never
guess.?Now the rug is ruined; so's your little dress.
Little Master Mischievous, in the cookie jar,?Who has ever told you where the cookies are??Now your sticky fingers smear the curtains
white;?You have finger-printed everything in sight.?There's no use in scolding; when you smile that
way?You can rob of terror every word we say.
Little Master Mischievous, that's the name for
you;?There's no better title that describes the things
you do:?Prying into corners, peering into nooks,?Tugging table covers, tearing costly books.?Little Master Mischievous, have your roguish
way;?Time, I know, will stop you, soon enough some
day.
OPPORTUNITY
So long as men shall be on earth?There will be tasks for them to do,?Some way for them to show their worth;?Each day shall bring its problems new.
And men shall dream of mightier deeds?Than ever have been done before:?There always shall be human needs?For men to work and struggle for.
THE SORROW TUGS
There's a lot of joy in the smiling world,
there's plenty of morning sun,?And laughter and songs and dances, too, whenever
the day's work's done;?Full many an hour is a shining one, when
viewed by itself apart,?But the golden threads in the warp of life are
the sorrow tugs at your heart.
Oh, the fun is froth and it blows away, and
many a joy's forgot,?And the pleasures come and the pleasures go,
and memory holds them not;?But treasured ever you keep the pain that causes
your tears to start,?For the sweetest hours are the ones that bring
the sorrow tugs at your heart.
The lump in your throat and the little sigh when
your baby trudged away?The very first time to the big red school -- how
long will their memory stay??The fever days and the long black nights you
watched as she troubled, slept,?And the joy you felt when she smiled once
more -- how long will that all be kept?
The glad hours live in a feeble way, but the sad
ones never die.?His first long trousers caused a pang and you
saw them with a sigh.?And the big still house when the boy and girl,
unto youth and beauty grown,?To college went; will you e'er forget that first
grim hour alone?
It seems as you look back over things, that all
that you treasure dear?Is somehow blent in a wondrous way with a
heart pang and a tear.?Though many a day is a joyous one when
viewed by itself apart,?The golden threads in the warp of life are the
sorrow tugs at your heart.
ONLY A DAD
Only a dad with a tired face,?Coming home from the daily race,?Bringing little of gold or fame?To show how well he has played the game;?But glad in his heart that his own rejoice?To see him come and to hear his voice.
Only a dad with a brood of four,?One of ten million men or more?Plodding along in the daily strife,?Bearing the whips and the scorns of life,?With never a whimper of pain or hate,?For the sake of those who at home await.
Only a dad, neither rich nor proud,?Merely one of the surging crowd,?Toiling, striving from day to day,?Facing whatever may