It's seldom I sigh for unlimited gold Or the power of a rich man to buy; My courage is stout when the doing without Is only my duty, but I Curse the shackles of thrift when I gaze at the toys That my kiddies are eager to own, And I'd buy everything that they wish for, by Jing!

If their mother would let me alone.

There isn't much fun spending coin on myself For neckties and up-to-date lids, But there's pleasure tenfold, in the silver and gold I part with for things for the kids.

I can go through the town pa.s.sing store after store Showing things it would please me to own, But to thrift I am lost; I won't reckon the cost When I'm left in a toy shop alone.

The Mother on the Sidewalk

The mother on the sidewalk as the troops are marching by Is the mother of Old Glory that is waving in the sky.

Men have fought to keep it splendid, men have died to keep it bright, But that flag was born of woman and her sufferings day and night; 'Tis her sacrifice has made it, and once more we ought to pray For the brave and loyal mother of the boy who goes away.

There are days of grief before her; there are hours that she will weep; There are nights of anxious waiting when her fear will banish sleep; She has heard her country calling and has risen to the test, And has placed upon the altar of the nation's need, her best.

And no man shall ever suffer in the turmoil of the fray The anguish of the mother of the boy who goes away.

You may boast men's deeds of glory, you may tell their courage great, But to die is easier service than alone to sit and wait, And I hail the little mother, with the tear-stained face and grave, Who has given the flag a soldier--she's the bravest of the brave.

And that banner we are proud of, with its red and blue and white, Is a lasting holy tribute to all mothers' love of right.

Memorial Day

The finest tribute we can pay Unto our hero dead to-day, Is not a rose wreath, white and red, In memory of the blood they shed; It is to stand beside each mound, Each couch of consecrated ground, And pledge ourselves as warriors true Unto the work they died to do.

Into G.o.d's valleys where they lie At rest, beneath the open sky, Triumphant now o'er every foe, As living tributes let us go.

No wreath of rose or immortelles Or spoken word or tolling bells Will do to-day, unless we give Our pledge that liberty shall live.

Our hearts must be the roses red We place above our hero dead; To-day beside their graves we must Renew allegiance to their trust; Must bare our heads and humbly say We hold the Flag as dear as they, And stand, as once they stood, to die To keep the Stars and Stripes on high.

The finest tribute we can pay Unto our hero dead to-day Is not of speech or roses red, But living, throbbing hearts instead, That shall renew the pledge they sealed With death upon the battlefield: That freedom's flag shall bear no stain And free men wear no tyrant's chain.

Memory

I stood and watched him playing, A little lad of three, And back to me came straying The years that used to be; In him the boy was Maying Who once belonged to me.

The selfsame brown his eyes were As those that once I knew; As glad and gay his cries were, He owned his laughter, too.

His features, form and size were My baby's, through and through.

His ears were those I'd sung to; His chubby little hands Were those that I had clung to; His hair in golden strands It seemed my heart was strung to By love's unbroken bands.

With him I lived the old days That seem so far away; The beautiful and bold days When he was here to play; The sunny and the gold days Of that remembered May.

I know not who he may be Nor where his home may be, But I shall every day be In hope again to see The image of the baby Who once belonged to me.

The Stick-Together Families

The stick-together families are happier by far Than the brothers and the sisters who take separate highways are.

The gladdest people living are the wholesome folks who make A circle at the fireside that no power but death can break.

And the finest of conventions ever held beneath the sun Are the little family gatherings when the busy day is done.

There are rich folk, there are poor folk, who imagine they are wise, And they're very quick to shatter all the little family ties.

Each goes searching after pleasure in his own selected way, Each with strangers likes to wander, and with strangers likes to play.

But it's bitterness they harvest, and it's empty joy they find, For the children that are wisest are the stick-together kind.

There are some who seem to fancy that for gladness they must roam, That for smiles that are the brightest they must wander far from home.

That the strange friend is the true friend, and they travel far astray they waste their lives in striving for a joy that's far away, But the gladdest sort of people, when the busy day is done, Are the brothers and the sisters who together share their fun.

It's the stick-together family that wins the joys of earth, That hears the sweetest music and that finds the finest mirth; It's the old home roof that shelters all the charm that life can give; There you find the gladdest play-ground, there the happiest spot to live.

And, O weary, wandering brother, if contentment you would win, Come you back unto the fireside and be comrade with your kin.

Childless

If certain folks that I know well Should come to me their woes to tell I'd read the sorrow in their faces And I could a.n.a.lyze their cases.

I watch some couples day by day Go madly on their selfish way Forever seeking happiness And always finding something less.

If she whose face is fair to see, Yet lacks one charm that there should be, Should open wide her heart to-day I think I know what she would say.

She'd tell me that his love seems cold And not the love she knew of old; That for the home they've built to share No longer does her husband care; That he seems happier away Than by her side, and every day That pa.s.ses leaves them more apart; And then perhaps her tears would start And in a softened voice she'd add: "Sometimes I wonder, if we had A baby now to love, if he Would find so many faults in me?"

And if he came to tell his woe Just what he'd say to me, I know: "There's something dismal in the place That always stares me in the face.

I love her. She is good and sweet But still my joy is incomplete.

And then it seems to me that she Can only see the faults in me.

I wonder sometimes if we had A little girl or little lad, If life with all its fret and fuss Would then seem so monotonous?"

And what I'd say to them I know.

I'd bid them straightway forth to go And find that child and take him in And start the joy of life to win.

You foolish, hungry souls, I'd say, You're living in a selfish way.

A baby's arms stretched out to you Will give you something real to do.

And though G.o.d has not sent one down To you, within this very town Somewhere a little baby lies That would bring gladness to your eyes.

You cannot live this life for gold Or selfish joys. As you grow old You'll find that comfort only springs From living for the living things.

And home must be a barren place That never knows a baby's face.

Take in a child that needs your care, Give him your name and let him share Your happiness and you will own More joy than you have ever known, And, what is more, you'll come to feel That you are doing something real.

The Crucible of Life