Best way to read a book I've found Is have a little boy around And take him up upon your knee; Then talk about the tale, till he Lives it and feels it, just as you, And shares the great adventure, too.

Books have a deep and lasting joy For him who reads them to his boy.

The Song of Loved Ones

The father toils at his work all day, And he hums this song as he plods away: "Heigho! for the mother and babe of three Who watch at the window each night for me.

Their smiles are ever before my eyes, And never the sound of their voices dies, But ever and ever they seem to say, 'Love waits for you at the close of day.'"

At home, a mother is heard to croon To a little babe, this simple tune: "Heigho! for the father who toils to-day, He thinks of us, though he's far away; He soon will come with a happy tread, And stooping over your trundle bed, Your little worries he'll kiss away; Love comes to us at the close of day."

Becoming a Dad

Old women say that men don't know The pain through which all mothers go, And maybe that is true, and yet I vow I never shall forget The night he came. I suffered, too, Those bleak and dreary long hours through; I paced the floor and mopped my brow And waited for his glad wee-ow!

I went upstairs and then came down, Because I saw the doctor frown And knew beyond the slightest doubt He wished to goodness I'd clear out.

I walked into the yard for air And back again to hear her there, And met the nurse, as calm as though My world was not in deepest woe, And when I questioned, seeking speech Of consolation that would reach Into my soul and strengthen me For dreary hours that were to be: "Progressing nicely!" that was all She said and tip-toed down the hall; "Progressing nicely!" nothing more, And left me there to pace the floor.

And once the nurse came out in haste For something that had been misplaced, And I that had been growing bold Then felt my blood grow icy cold; And fear's stern chill swept over me.

I stood and watched and tried to see Just what it was she came to get.

I haven't learned that secret yet.

I half-believe that nurse in white Was adding fuel to my fright And taking an unholy glee, From time to time, in torturing me.

Then silence! To her room I crept And was informed the doctor slept!

The doctor slept! Oh, vicious thought, While she at death's door bravely fought And suffered untold anguish deep, The doctor lulled himself to sleep.

I looked and saw him stretched out flat And could have killed the man for that.

Then morning broke, and oh, the joy; With dawn there came to us our boy, And in a glorious little while I went in there and saw her smile!

I must have looked a human wreck, My collar wilted at the neck, My hair awry, my features drawn With all the suffering I had borne.

She looked at me and softly said, "If I were you, I'd go to bed."

Hers was the bitterer part, I know; She traveled through the vale of woe, But now when women folks recall The pain and anguish of it all I answer them in manner sad: "It's no cinch to become a dad."

The Test

You can brag about the famous men you know; You may boast about the great men you have met, Parsons, eloquent and wise; stars in histrionic skies; Millionaires and navy admirals, and yet Fame and power and wealth and glory vanish fast; They are l.u.s.ters that were never made to stick, And the friends worth-while and true, are the happy smiling few Who come to call upon you when you're sick.

You may think it very fine to know the great; You may glory in some leader's words of praise; You may tell with eyes aglow of the public men you know, But the true friends seldom travel glory's ways, And the day you're lying ill, lonely, pale and keeping still, With a fevered pulse, that's beating double quick, Then it is you must depend on the old-familiar friend To come to call upon you when you're sick.

It is pleasing to receive a great man's nod, And it's good to know the big men of the land, But the test of friendship true, isn't merely: "Howdy-do?"

And a willingness to shake you by the hand.

If you want to know the friends who love you best, And the faithful from the doubtful you would pick, It is not a mighty task; of yourself you've but to ask: "Does he come to call upon me when I'm sick?"

The Old Wooden Tub

I like to get to thinking of the old days that are gone, When there were joys that never more the world will look upon, The days before inventors smoothed the little cares away And made, what seemed but luxuries then, the joys of every day; When bathrooms were exceptions, and we got our weekly scrub By standing in the middle of a little wooden tub.

We had no rapid heaters, and no blazing gas to burn, We boiled the water on the stove, and each one took his turn.

Sometimes to save expenses we would use one tub for two; The water brother Billy used for me would also do, Although an extra kettle I was granted, I admit, On winter nights to freshen and to warm it up a bit.

We carried water up the stairs in buckets and in pails, And sometimes splashed it on our legs, and rent the air with wails, But if the nights were very cold, by closing every door We were allowed to take our bath upon the kitchen floor.

Beside the cheery stove we stood and gave ourselves a rub, In comfort most luxurious in that old wooden tub.

But modern homes no more go through that joyous weekly fun, And through the sitting rooms at night no half-dried children run; No little flying forms go past, too swift to see their charms, With shirts and underwear and things tucked underneath their arms; The home's so full of luxury now, it's almost like a club, I sometimes wish we could go back to that old wooden tub.

Lost Opportunities

"When I am rich," he used to say, "A thousand joys I'll give away; I'll walk among the poor I find And unto one and all be kind.

I'll place a wreath of roses red Upon the bier of all my dead; I'll help the struggling youth to climb; In doing good I'll spend my time; To all in need I'll friendly be The day that fortune smiles on me."

He never guessed that being kind Depends upon the heart and mind And not upon the purse at all; That poor men's gifts, however small, Make light some weary traveler's load And smooth for him his troubled road.

He never knew or understood The fellowship of doing good.

Because he had not much to spare He thought it vain to give his share.

Yet many pa.s.sed him, day by day, He might have helped along the way.

He fancied kindness something which Belongs entirely to the rich.

And so he lived and toiled for gold, Unsympathetic, harsh and cold, Intending all the time to share The burdens that his brothers bear When he possessed great wealth, and he Could well afford a friend to be.

His fortune came, but, oh, too late; The poor about him could not wait.

They never guessed and never knew The things that he had meant to do.

Few knew how much he'd planned to give If G.o.d had only let him live.

And when at last his form was cold, All that he'd left on earth was gold.

A kindly name is something which A man must earn before he's rich.

Patriotism

I think my country needs my vote, I know it doesn't need my throat, My lungs and larynx, too; And so I sit at home at night And teach my children what is right And wise for them to do; And when I'm on the job by day I do my best to earn my pay.