The Path to Home | Page 6

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 them!" the mother tells,?When I am heedless to their yells,?And let them race and romp about?And do not put their joy to rout.?I know I should be firm, and yet?I tried it once to my regret;?I will remember till I'm old?The day I started in to scold.
I stamped my foot and shouted: "Stop!"?And Bud just let his drum sticks drop,?And looked at me, and turned away;?That night there was no further play.?The girls were solemn-like and still,?Just as girls are when they are ill,?And when unto his cot I crept,?I found him sobbing as he slept.
That was my first attempt and last?To play the scold. I'm glad it passed?So quickly and has left no trace?Of memory on each little face;?But now when mother whispers low:?"You're spoiling them," I answer, "No!?But it is plain, as plain can be,?Those little tykes are spoiling me."
An Old-Fashioned Welcome
There's nothing cheers a fellow up just like a hearty greeting, A handclasp and an honest smile that flash the joy of meeting; And when at friendly doors you ring, somehow it seems to free you From all life's doubts to hear them say: "Come in! We're glad to see you!"
At first the portal slips ajar in answer to your ringing,?And then your eyes meet friendly eyes, and wide the door goes flinging; And something seems to stir the soul, however troubled be you, If but the cheery host exclaims: "Come in! We're glad to see you!"
Our House
We play at our house and have all sorts of fun,?An' there's always a game when the supper is done;?An' at our house there's marks on the walls an' the stairs, An' some terrible scratches on some of the chairs;?An' ma says that our house is really a fright,?But pa and I say that our house is all right.
At our house we laugh an' we sing an' we shout,?An' whirl all the chairs an' the tables about,?An' I rassle my pa an' I get him down too,?An' he's all out of breath when the fightin' is through;?An' ma says that our house is surely a sight,?But pa an' I say