Who thinks he gathers only rue?

The other fellow.

Who sighs because he thinks that he Would infinitely happier he, If he could be like you or me?

The other fellow.

The Open Fire

There in the flame of the open grate, All that is good in the past I see: Red-lipped youth on the swinging gate, Bright-eyed youth with its minstrelsy; Girls and boys that I used to know, Back in the days of Long Ago, Troop before in the smoke and flame, Chatter and sing, as the wild birds do.

Everyone I can call by name, For the fire builds all of my youth anew.

Outside, people go stamping by, Squeak of wheel on the evening air, Stars and planets race through the sky, Here are darkness and silence rare; Only the flames in the open grate Crackle and flare as they burn up hate, Malice and envy and greed for gold, Dancing, laughing my cares away; I've forgotten that I am old, Once again I'm a boy at play.

There in the flame of the open grate Bright the pictures come and go; Lovers swing on the garden gate, Lovers kiss 'neath the mistletoe.

I've forgotten that I am old, I've forgotten my story's told; Whistling boy down the lane I stroll, All untouched by the blows of fate, Time turns back and I'm young of soul, Dreaming there by the open grate.

Improvement

The joy of life is living it, or so it seems to me; In finding shackles on your wrists, then struggling till you're free; In seeing wrongs and righting them, in dreaming splendid dreams, Then toiling till the vision is as real as moving streams.

The happiest mortal on the earth is he who ends his day By leaving better than he found to bloom along the way.

Were all things perfect here there would be naught for man to do; If what is old were good enough we'd never need the new.

The only happy time of rest is that which follows strife And sees some contribution made unto the joy of life.

And he who has oppression felt and conquered it is he Who really knows the happiness and peace of being free.

The miseries of earth are here and with them all must cope.

Who seeks for joy, through hedges thick of care and pain must grope.

Through disappointment man must go to value pleasure's thrill; To really know the joy of health a man must first be ill.

The wrongs are here for man to right, and happiness is had By striving to supplant with good the evil and the bad.

The joy of life is living it and doing things of worth, In making bright and fruitful all the barren spots of earth.

In facing odds and mastering them and rising from defeat, And making true what once was false, and what was bitter, sweet.

For only he knows perfect joy whose little bit of soil Is richer ground than what it was when he began to toil.

Send Her a Valentine

Send her a valentine to say You love her in the same old way.

Just drop the long familiar ways And live again the old-time days When love was new and youth was bright And all was laughter and delight, And treat her as you would if she Were still the girl that used to be.

Pretend that all the years have pa.s.sed Without one cold and wintry blast; That you are coming still to woo Your sweetheart as you used to do; Forget that you have walked along The paths of life where right and wrong And joy and grief in battle are, And play the heart without a scar.

Be what you were when youth was fine And send to her a valentine; Forget the burdens and the woe That have been given you to know And to the wife, so fond and true, The pledges of the past renew 'Twill cure her life of every ill To find that you're her sweetheart still.

Bud

Who is it lives to the full every minute, Gets all the joy and the fun that is in it?

Tough as they make 'em, and ready to race, Fit for a battle and fit for a chase, Heedless of b.u.t.tons on blouses and pants, Laughing at danger and taking a chance, Gladdest, it seems, when he wallows in mud, Who is the rascal? I'll tell you, it's Bud!

Who is it wakes with a shout of delight, And comes to our room with a smile that is bright?

Who is it springs into bed with a leap And thinks it is queer that his dad wants to sleep?

Who answers his growling with laughter and tries His patience by lifting the lids of his eyes?

Who jumps in the air and then lands with a thud On his poor daddy's stomach? I'll tell you, it's Bud!

Who is it thinks life is but laughter and play And doesn't know care is a part of the day?

Who is reckless of stockings and heedless of shoes?

Who laughs at a tumble and grins at a bruise?

Who climbs over fences and clambers up trees, And sc.r.a.pes all the skin off his shins and his knees?

Who sometimes comes home all bespattered with blood That was drawn by a fall? It's that rascal called Bud.

Yet, who is it makes all our toiling worth while?

Who can cure every ache that we know, by his smile?

Who is prince to his mother and king to his dad And makes us forget that we ever were sad?

Who is center of all that we dream of and plan, Our baby to-day but to-morrow our man?

It's that tough little, rough little tyke in the mud, That tousled-haired, fun-loving rascal called Bud!

The Front Seat

When I was but a little lad I always liked to ride, No matter what the rig we had, right by the driver's side.

The front seat was the honor place in bob-sleigh, coach or hack, And I maneuvered to avoid the cushions in the back.

We children used to scramble then to share the driver's seat, And long the pout I wore when I was not allowed that treat.

Though times have changed and I am old I still confess I race With other grown-ups now and then to get my favorite place.

The auto with its cushions fine and big and easy springs Has altered in our daily lives innumerable things, But hearts of men are still the same as what they used to be, When surreys were the stylish rigs, or so they seem to me, For every grown-up girl to-day and every grown-up boy Still hungers for the seat in front and scrambles for its joy, And riding by the driver's side still holds the charm it did In those glad, youthful days gone by when I was just a kid.

I hurry, as I used to do, to claim that favorite place, And when a tonneau seat is mine I wear a solemn face.

I try to hide the pout I feel, and do my best to smile, But envy of the man in front gnaws at me all the while.

I want to be where I can see the road that lies ahead, To watch the trees go flying by and see the country spread Before me as we spin along, for there I miss the fear That seems to grip the soul of me while riding in the rear.

And I am not alone in this. To-day I drive a car And three glad youngsters madly strive to share the "seat with Pa."

And older folks that ride with us, I very plainly see, Maneuver in their artful ways to sit in front with me; Though all the cushions in the world were piled up in the rear, The child in all of us still longs to watch the engineer.

And happier hearts we seem to own when we're allowed to ride, No matter what the car may be, close by the driver's side.

There Are No G.o.ds