When Mother Cooked With Wood

I do not quarrel with the gas, Our modern range is fine, The ancient stove was doomed to pa.s.s From Time's grim firing line, Yet now and then there comes to me The thought of dinners good And pies and cake that used to be When mother cooked with wood.

The axe has vanished from the yard, The chopping block is gone, There is no pile of cordwood hard For boys to work upon; There is no box that must be filled Each morning to the hood; Time in its ruthlessness has willed The pa.s.sing of the wood.

And yet those days were fragrant days And spicy days and rare; The kitchen knew a cheerful blaze And friendliness was there.

And every appet.i.te was keen For breakfasts that were good When I had scarcely turned thirteen And mother cooked with wood.

I used to dread my daily ch.o.r.e, I used to think it tough When mother at the kitchen door Said I'd not chopped enough.

And on her baking days, I know, I shirked whene'er I could In that now happy long ago When mother cooked with wood.

I never thought I'd wish to see That pile of wood again; Back then it only seemed to me A source of care and pain.

But now I'd gladly give my all To stand where once I stood, If those rare days I could recall When mother cooked with wood.

Midnight in the Pantry

You can boast your round of pleasures, praise the sound of popping corks, Where the orchestra is playing to the rattle of the forks; And your after-opera dinner you may think superbly fine, But that can't compare, I'm certain, to the joy that's always mine When I reach my little dwelling--source, of all sincere delight-- And I prowl around the pantry in the waning hours of night.

When my business, or my pleasure, has detained me until late, And it's midnight, say, or after, when I reach my own estate, Though I'm weary with my toiling I don't hustle up to bed, For the inner man is hungry and he's anxious to be fed; Then I feel a thrill of glory from my head down to my feet As I prowl around the pantry after something good to eat.

Oft I hear a call above me: "Goodness gracious, come to bed!"

And I know that I've disturbed her by my overeager tread, But I've found a gla.s.s of jelly and some bread and b.u.t.ter, too, And a bit of cold fried chicken and I answer: "When I'm through!"

Oh, there's no cafe that better serves my precious appet.i.te Than the pantry in our kitchen when I get home late at night.

You may boast your shining silver, and the linen and the flowers, And the music and the laughter and the lights that hang in showers; You may have your cafe table with its brilliant array, But it doesn't charm yours truly when I'm on my homeward way; For a greater joy awaits me, as I hunger for a bite-- Just the joy of pantry-prowling in the middle of the night.

The World Is Against Me

"The world is against me," he said with a sigh.

"Somebody stops every scheme that I try.

The world has me down and it's keeping me there; I don't get a chance. Oh, the world is unfair!

When a fellow is poor then he can't get a show; The world is determined to keep him down low."

"What of Abe Lincoln?" I asked. "Would you say That he was much richer than you are to-day?

He hadn't your chance of making his mark, And his outlook was often exceedingly dark; Yet he clung to his purpose with courage most grim And he got to the top. Was the world against him?"

"What of Ben Franklin? I've oft heard it said That many a time he went hungry to bed.

He started with nothing but courage to climb, But patiently struggled and waited his time.

He dangled awhile from real poverty's limb, Yet he got to the top. Was the world against him?

"I could name you a dozen, yes, hundreds, I guess, Of poor boys who've patiently climbed to success; All boys who were down and who struggled alone, Who'd have thought themselves rich if your fortune they'd known; Yet they rose in the world you're so quick to condemn, And I'm asking you now, was the world against them?"

Bribed

I know that what I did was wrong; I should have sent you far away.

You tempted me, and I'm not strong; I tried but couldn't answer nay.

I should have packed you off to bed; Instead I let you stay awhile, And mother scolded when I said That you had bribed me with your smile.

And yesterday I gave to you Another piece of chocolate cake, Some red-ripe watermelon, too, And that gave you the stomach ache.

And that was after I'd been told You'd had enough, you saucy miss; You tempted me, you five-year-old, And bribed me with a hug and kiss.

And mother said I mustn't get You roller skates, yet here they are; I haven't dared to tell her yet; Some time, she says, I'll go too far.

I gave my word I wouldn't buy These things, for accidents she fears; Now I must tell, when questioned why, Just how you bribed me with your tears.

I've tried so hard to do the right, Yet I have broken every vow.

I let you do, most every night, The things your mother won't allow.

I know that I am doing wrong, Yet all my sense of honor flies, The moment that you come along And bribe me with those wondrous eyes.

The Home Builders

The world is filled with bustle and with selfishness and greed, It is filled with restless people that are dreaming of a deed.

You can read it in their faces; they are dreaming of the day When they'll come to fame and fortune and put all their cares away.

And I think as I behold them, though it's far indeed they roam, They will never find contentment save they seek for it at home.

I watch them as they hurry through the surging lines of men, Spurred to speed by grim ambition, and I know they're dreaming then.

They are weary, sick and footsore, but their goal seems far away, And it's little they've accomplished at the ending of the day.

It is rest they're vainly seeking, love and laughter in the gloam, But they'll never come to claim it, save they claim it here at home.

For the peace that is the sweetest isn't born of minted gold, And the joy that lasts the longest and still lingers when we're old Is no dim and distant pleasure--it is not to-morrow's prize, It is not the end of toiling, or the rainbow of our sighs.

It' is every day within us--all the rest is hippodrome-- And the soul that is the gladdest is the soul that builds a home.

They are fools who build for glory! They are fools who pin their hopes On the come and go of battles or some vessel's slender ropes.

They shall sicken and shall wither and shall never peace attain Who believe that real contentment only men victorious gain.

For the only happy toilers under earth's majestic dome Are the ones who find their glories in the little spot called home.

My Books and I

My books and I are good old pals: My laughing books are gay, Just suited for my merry moods When I am wont to play.

Bill Nye comes down to joke with me And, Oh, the joy he spreads.

Just like two fools we sit and laugh And shake our merry heads.

When I am in a thoughtful mood, With Stevenson I sit, Who seems to know I've had enough Of Bill Nye and his wit.