He takes my hand and we go out And everything we talk about.

He tells me how G.o.d makes the trees, And why it hurts to pick up bees.

Sometimes he stops and shows to me The place where fairies used to be; And then he tells me stories, too, And I am sorry when he's through.

When I am asking him for more He says: "Why there's a candy store!

Let's us go there and see if they Have got the kind we like to-day."

Then when we get back home my ma Says: "You are spoiling Buddy, Pa."

My grandpa is my mother's pa, I guess that's what all grandpas are.

And sometimes ma, all smiles, will say: "You didn't always act that way.

When I was little, then you said That children should be sent to bed And not allowed to rule the place And lead old folks a merry chase."

And grandpa laughs and says: "That's true, That's what I used to say to you.

It is a father's place to show The young the way that they should go, But grandpas have a different task, Which is to get them all they ask."

When I get big and old and gray I'm going to spend my time in play; I'm going to be a grandpa, too, And do as all the grandpas do.

I'll buy my daughter's children things Like horns and drums and tops with strings, And tell them all about the trees And frogs and fish and birds and bees And fairies in the shady glen And tales of giants, too, and when They beg of me for just one more, I'll take them to the candy store; I'll buy them everything they see The way my grandpa does for me

Pa Did It

The train of cars that Santa brought is out of kilter now; While pa was showing how they went he broke the spring somehow.

They used to run around a track--at least they did when he Would let me take them in my hands an' wind 'em with a key.

I could 'a' had some fun with 'em, if only they would go, But, gee! I never had a chance, for pa enjoyed em so.

The automobile that I got that ran around the floor Was lots of fun when it was new, but it won't go no more.

Pa wound it up for Uncle Jim to show him how it went, And when those two got through with it the runnin' gear was bent, An' now it doesn't go at all. I mustn't grumble though, 'Cause while it was in shape to run my pa enjoyed it so.

I've got my blocks as good as new, my mitts are perfect yet; Although the snow is on the ground I haven't got em wet.

I've taken care of everything that Santa brought to me, Except the toys that run about when wound up with a key.

But next year you can bet I won't make any such mistake; I'm going to ask for toys an' things that my pa cannot break.

The Real Successes

You think that the failures are many, You think the successes are few, But you judge by the rule of the penny, And not by the good that men do.

You judge men by standards of treasure That merely obtain upon earth, When the brother you're snubbing may measure Full-length to G.o.d's standard of worth.

The failures are not in the ditches, The failures are not in the ranks, They have missed the acquirement of riches, Their fortunes are not in the banks.

Their virtues are never paraded, Their worth is not always in view, But they're fighting their battles unaided, And fighting them honestly, too.

There are failures to-day in high places The failures aren't all in the low; There are rich men with scorn in their faces Whose homes are but castles of woe.

The homes that are happy are many, And numberless fathers are true; And this is the standard, if any, By which we must judge what men do.

Wherever loved ones are awaiting The toiler to kiss and caress, Though in Bradstreet's he hasn't a rating, He still is a splendid success.

If the dear ones who gather about him And know what he's striving to do Have never a reason to doubt him, Is he less successful than you?

You think that the failures are many, You judge by men's profits in gold; You judge by the rule of the penny-- In this true success isn't told.

This falsely man's story is telling, For wealth often brings on distress, But wherever love brightens a dwelling, There lives; rich or poor, a success.

The Sorry Hostess

She said she was sorry the weather was bad The night that she asked us to dine; And she really appeared inexpressibly sad Because she had hoped 'twould be fine.

She was sorry to hear that my wife had a cold, And she almost shed tears over that, And how sorry she was, she most feelingly told, That the steam wasn't on in the flat.

She was sorry she hadn't asked others to come, She might just as well have had eight; She said she was downcast and terribly glum Because her dear husband was late.

She apologized then for the home she was in, For the state of the rugs and the chairs, For the children who made such a horrible din, And then for the squeak in the stairs.

When the dinner began she apologized twice For the olives, because they were small; She was certain the celery, too, wasn't nice, And the soup didn't suit her at all.

She was sorry she couldn't get whitefish instead Of the trout that the fishmonger sent, But she hoped that we'd manage somehow to be fed, Though her dinner was not what she meant.

She spoke her regrets for the salad, and then Explained she was really much hurt, And begged both our pardons again and again For serving a skimpy dessert.

She was sorry for this and sorry for that, Though there really was nothing to blame.

But I thought to myself as I put on my hat, Perhaps she is sorry we came.

Yesterday

I've trod the links with many a man, And played him club for club; 'Tis scarce a year since I began And I am still a dub.

But this I've noticed as we strayed Along the bunkered way, No one with me has ever played As he did yesterday.

It makes no difference what the drive, Together as we walk, Till we up to the ball arrive, I get the same old talk: "To-day there's something wrong with me, Just what I cannot say.

"Would you believe I got a three For this hole--yesterday?"

I see them top and slice a shot, And fail to follow through, And with their bra.s.sies plough the lot, The very way I do.

To six and seven their figures run, And then they sadly say: "I neither dubbed, nor foozled one When I played--yesterday."

I have no yesterdays to count, No good work to recall; Each morning sees hope proudly mount, Each evening sees it fall.

And in the locker room at night, When men discuss their play, I hear them and I wish I might Have seen them--yesterday,

Oh, dear old yesterday! What store Of joys for men you hold!

I'm sure there is no day that's more Remembered or extolled.

I'm off my task myself a bit, My mind has run astray; I think, perhaps, I should have writ These verses--yesterday.

The Beauty Places

Here she walked and romped about, And here beneath this apple tree Where all the gra.s.s is trampled out The swing she loved so used to be.

This path is but a path to you, Because my child you never knew.

'Twas here she used to stoop to smell The first bright daffodil of spring; 'Twas here she often tripped and fell And here she heard the robins sing.