Tuggin' at your bottle, As you nestle in your crib, With your daddy grinnin' at you 'Cause you've dribbled on your bib, An' you gurgle an' you chortle Like a brook in early Spring; An' you kick your pink feet gayly, An' I think you'd like to sing.

All you wanted was your dinner, Daddy knew it too, you bet!

An' the moment that you got it Then you ceased to fuss an' fret.

Tuggin' at your bottle, Not a care, excepting when You lose the rubber nipple, But you find it soon again; An' the gurglin' an' the gooin'

An' the chortlin' start anew, An' the kickin' an' the squirmin'

Show the wondrous joy o' you.

But I'll bet you're not as happy At your dinner, little tot, As the weather-beaten daddy Who is bendin' o'er your cot!

The Pay Envelope

Is it all in the envelope holding your pay?

Is that all you're working for day after day?

Are you getting no more from your toil than the gold That little enclosure of paper will hold?

Is that all you're after; is that all you seek?

Does that close the deal at the end of the week?

Is it all in the envelope holding his pay?

Is that all you offer him day after day?

Is that all he wins by his labor from you?

Is that the reward for the best he can do?

Would you say of your men, when the week has been turned, That all they've received is the money they've earned?

Is it all in the envelope, workman and chief?

Then loyalty's days must be fleeting and brief; If you measure your work by its value in gold The sum of your worth by your pay shall be told; And if something of friendship your men do not find Outside of their envelopes, you're the wrong kind.

If all that you offer is silver and gold, You haven't a man in your plant you can hold.

If all that you're after each week is your pay, You are doing your work in a short-sighted way; For the bigger rewards it is useless to hope If you never can see past the pay envelope.

The Evening Prayer

Little girlie, kneeling there, Speaking low your evening prayer, In your cunning little nightie With your pink toes peeping through, With your eyes closed and your hands Tightly clasped, while daddy stands In the doorway, just to hear the "G.o.d bless papa," lisped by you, You don't know just what I feel, As I watch you nightly kneel By your trundle bed and whisper Soft and low your little prayer!

But in all I do or plan, I'm a bigger, better man Every time I hear you asking G.o.d to make my journey fair.

Little girlie, kneeling there, Lisping low your evening prayer, Asking G.o.d above to bless me At the closing of each day, Oft the tears come to my eyes, And I feel a big lump rise In my throat, that I can't swallow, And I sometimes turn away.

In the morning, when I wake, And my post of duty take, I go forth with new-born courage To accomplish what is fair; And, throughout the live-long day, I am striving every way To come back to you each evening And be worthy of your prayer.

Thoughts of a Father

We've never seen the Father here, but we have known the Son, The finest type of manhood since the world was first begun.

And, summing up the works of G.o.d, I write with reverent pen, The greatest is the Son He sent to cheer the lives of men.

Through Him we learned the ways of G.o.d and found the Father's love; The Son it was who won us back to Him who reigns above.

The Lord did not come down himself to prove to men His worth, He sought our worship through the Child He placed upon the earth.

How can I best express my life? Wherein does greatness lie?

How can I long remembrance win, since I am born to die?

Both fame and gold are selfish things; their charms may quickly flee, But I'm the father of a boy who came to speak for me.

In him lies all I hope to be; his splendor shall be mine; I shall have done man's greatest work if only he is fine.

If some day he shall help the world long after I am dead, In all that men shall say of him my praises shall be said.

It matters not what I may win of fleeting gold or fame, My hope of joy depends alone on what my boy shall claim.

My story must be told through him, for him I work and plan, Man's greatest duty is to be the father of a man.

When a Little Baby Dies

When a little baby dies And its wee form silent lies, And its little cheeks seem waxen And its little hands are still, Then your soul gives way to treason, And you cry: "O, G.o.d, what reason, O, what justice and what mercy Have You shown us by Your will?

"There are, O, so many here Of the yellow leaf and sere, Who are anxious, aye, and ready To respond unto Your call; Yet You pa.s.s them by unheeding, And You set our hearts to bleeding!

"O," you mutter, "G.o.d, how cruel Do Your vaunted mercies fall!"

Yet some day, in after years, When Death's angel once more nears, And the unknown, silent river Looms as darkly as a pall, You will hear your baby saying, "Mamma, come to me, I'm staying With my arms outstretched to greet you,"

And you'll understand it all.

To the Boy

I have no wish, my little lad, To climb the towering heights of fame.

I am content to be your dad And share with you each pleasant game.

I am content to hold your hand And walk along life's path with you, And talk of things we understand-- The birds and trees and skies of blue.

Though some may seek the smiles of kings, For me your laughter's joy enough; I have no wish to claim the things Which lure men into pathways rough.

I'm happiest when you and I, Unmindful of life's bitter cares, Together watch the clouds drift by, Or follow boyhood's thoroughfares.

I crave no more of life than this: Continuance of such a trust; Your smile, whate'er the morning is, Until my clay returns to dust.

If but this comradeship may last Until I end my earthly task-- Your hand and mine by love held fast-- Fame has no charm for which I'd ask.

I would not trade one day with you To wear the purple robes of power, Nor drop your hand from mine to do Some great deed in a selfish hour.

For you have brought me joy serene And made my soul supremely glad.

In life rewarded I have been; 'Twas all worth while to be your dad.