The Path to Home | Page 6

30
Tramp, The 133
Under the Roof Where the Laughter Rings 32
United States 105
Unknown Friends, The 43

What Father Knows 80
When a Little Baby Dies 155
When an Old Man Gets to Thinking 140
When Mother Made an Angel Cake 96
When My Ship Comes In 106
The Path to Home
There's the mother at the doorway, and the children at the gate, And the
little parlor windows with the curtains white and straight. There are
shaggy asters blooming in the bed that lines the fence, And the simplest
of the blossoms seems of mighty consequence. Oh, there isn't any
mansion underneath God's starry dome
That can rest a weary pilgrim
like the little place called home.
Men have sought for gold and silver; men have dreamed at night of
fame; In the heat of youth they've struggled for achievement's honored
name; But the selfish crowns are tinsel, and their shining jewels paste,
And the wine of pomp and glory soon grows bitter to the taste. For
there's never any laughter, howsoever far you roam,
Like the laughter
of the loved ones in the happiness of home.
There is nothing so important as the mother's lullabies,
Filled with
peace and sweet contentment, when the moon begins to rise-- Nothing
real except the beauty and the calm upon her face
And the shouting of

the children as they scamper round the place. For the greatest of man's
duties is to keep his loved ones glad And to have his children glory in
the father they have had.
So where'er a man may wander, and whatever be his care,
You'll find
his soul still stretching to the home he left somewhere. You'll find his
dreams all tangled up with hollyhocks in bloom, And the feet of little
children that go racing through a room, With the happy mother smiling
as she watches them at play-- These are all in life that matter, when
you've stripped the sham away.
Fine
Isn't it fine when the day is done,
And the petty battles are lost or won,

When the gold is made and the ink is dried,
To quit the struggle
and turn aside
To spend an hour with your boy in play,
And let him
race all of your cares away?
Isn't it fine when the day's gone well,
When you have glorious tales to
tell,
And your heart is light and your head is high.
For nothing has
happened to make you sigh,
To hurry homewards to share the joy

That your work has won with a little boy?
Isn't it fine, whether good or bad
Has come to the hopes and the plans
you had,
And the day is over, to find him there,
Thinking you
splendid and just and fair,
Ready to chase all your griefs away,
And
soothe your soul with an hour of play?
Oh, whether the day's been long or brief,
Whether it's brought to me
joy or grief,
Whether I've failed, or whether I've won,
It shall matter
not when the work is done;
I shall count it fine if I end each day

With a little boy in an hour of play.
Spoiling Them
"You're spoiling them!" the mother cries
When I give way to weepy

eyes
And let them do the things they wish,
Like cleaning up the
jelly dish,
Or finishing the chocolate cake,
Or maybe let the rascal
take
My piece of huckleberry pie,
Because he wants it more than I.
"You're spoiling