Living

If through the years we're not to do Much finer deeds than we have done; If we must merely wander through Time's garden, idling in the sun; If there is nothing big ahead, Why do we fear to join the dead?

Unless to-morrow means that we Shall do some needed service here; That tasks are waiting you and me That will be lost, save we appear; Then why this dreadful thought of sorrow That we may never see to-morrow?

If all our finest deeds are done, And all our splendor's in the past; If there's no battle to be won, What matter if to-day's our last?

Is life so sweet that we would live Though nothing back to life we give?

It is not greatness to have clung To life through eighty fruitless years; The man who dies in action, young, Deserves our praises and our cheers, Who ventures all for one great deed And gives his life to serve life's need.

On Being Broke

Don't mind being broke at all, When I can say that what I had Was spent for toys for kiddies small And that the spending made 'em glad.

I don't regret the money gone, If happiness it left behind.

An empty purse I'll look upon Contented, if its record's kind.

There's no disgrace in being broke, Unless it's due to flying high; Though poverty is not a joke, The only thing that counts is "why?"

The dollars come to me and go; To-day I've eight or ten to spend; To-morrow I'll be sailing low, And have to lean upon a friend.

But if that little bunch of mine Is richer by some toy or frill, I'll face the world and never whine Because I lack a dollar bill.

I'm satisfied, if I can see One smile that hadn't bloomed before.

The only thing that counts with me Is what I've spent my money for.

I might regret my sorry plight, If selfishness brought it about; If for the fun I had last night, Some joy they'd have to go without.

But if I've swapped my bit of gold, For laughter and a happier pack Of youngsters in my little fold I'll never wish those dollars back.

If I have traded coin for things They needed and have left them glad, Then being broke no sorrow brings-- I've done my best with what I had.

The Broken Drum

There is sorrow in the household; There's a grief too hard to bear; There's a little cheek that's tear-stained There's a sobbing baby there.

And try how we will to comfort, Still the tiny teardrops come; For, to solve a vexing problem, Curly Locks has wrecked his drum.

It had puzzled him and worried, How the drum created sound; For he couldn't understand it It was not enough to pound With his tiny hands and drumsticks, And at last the day has come, When another hope is shattered; Now in ruins lies his drum.

With his metal bank he broke it, Tore the tightened skin aside, Gazed on vacant s.p.a.ce bewildered, Then he broke right down and cried.

For the broken bubble shocked him And the baby tears must come; Now a joy has gone forever: Curly Locks has wrecked his drum.

While his mother tries to soothe him, I am sitting here alone; In the life that lies behind me; Many shocks like that I've known.

And the boy who's upstairs weeping, In the years that are to come Will learn that many pleasures Are as empty as his drum.

Mother's Excuses

Mother for me made excuses When I was a little tad; Found some reason for my conduct When it had been very bad.

Blamed it on a recent illness Or my nervousness and told Father to be easy with me Every time he had to scold.

And I knew, as well as any Roguish, healthy lad of ten, Mother really wasn't telling Truthful things to father then.

I knew I deserved the whipping, Knew that I'd been very bad, Knew that mother knew it also When she intervened with dad.

I knew that my recent illness Hadn't anything to do With the mischief I'd been up to, And I knew that mother knew.

But remembering my fever And my nervous temperament, Father put away the shingle And postponed the sad event.

Now his mother, when I threaten Punishment for this and that, Calls to mind the dreary night hours When beside his bed we sat.

Comes and tells me that he's nervous, That's the reason he was bad, And the boy and doting mother Put it over on the dad.

Some day when he's grown as I am, With a boy on mischief bent, He will hear the timeworn story Of the nervous temperament.

And remembering the shingle That aside I always threw, All I hope is that he'll let them Put it over on him, too.

As It Is

I might wish the world were better, I might sit around and sigh For a water that is wetter And a bluer sort of sky.

There are times I think the weather Could be much improved upon, But when taken altogether It's a good old world we're on.

I might tell how I would make it, But when I have had my say It is still my job to take it As it is, from day to day.

I might wish that men were kinder, And less eager after gold; I might wish that they were blinder To the faults they now behold.

And I'd try to make them gentle, And more tolerant in strife And a bit more sentimental O'er the finer things of life.

But I am not here to make them, Or to work in human clay; It is just my work to take them As they are from day to day.

Here's a world that suffers sorrow, Here are bitterness and pain, And the joy we plan to-morrow May be ruined by the rain.

Here are hate and greed and badness, Here are love and friendship, too, But the most of it is gladness When at last we've run it through.

Could we only understand it As we shall some distant day We should see that He who planned it Knew our needs along the way.

A Boy's Tribute

Prettiest girl I've ever seen Is Ma.

Lovelier than any queen Is Ma.

Girls with curls go walking by, Dainty, graceful, bold an' shy, But the one that takes my eye Is Ma.

Every girl made into one Is Ma.

Sweetest girl to look upon Is Ma.

Seen 'em short and seen 'em tall, Seen 'em big and seen 'em small, But the finest one of all Is Ma.

Best of all the girls on earth Is Ma.

One that all the rest is worth Is Ma.