His Dog

Pete bristles when the doorbell rings.

Last night he didn't act the same.

Dogs have a way of knowin' things, An' when the dreaded cable came, He looked at mother an' he whined His soft, low sign of somethin' wrong, As though he knew that we should find The news that we had feared so long.

He's followed me about the place An' hasn't left my heels to-day; He's rubbed his nose against my face As if to kiss my grief away.

There on his plate beside the door You'll see untouched his mornin' meal.

I never understood before That dogs share every hurt you feel.

We've got the pride o' service fine As consolation for the blow; We know by many a written line He went the way he wished to go.

We know that G.o.d an' Country found Our boy a servant brave an' true-- But Pete must sadly walk around An' miss the master that he knew.

The mother's bearing up as well As such a n.o.ble mother would; The hurt I feel I needn't tell-- I guess by all it's understood.

But Pete--his dog--that used to wait Each night to hear his cheery call, An' romped about him at the gate, Has felt the blow the worst of all.

Lullaby

The golden dreamboat's ready, all her silken sails are spread, And the breeze is gently blowing to the fairy port of Bed, And the fairy's captain's waiting while the busy sandman flies With the silver dust of slumber, closing every baby's eyes.

Oh, the night is rich with moonlight and the sea is calm with peace, And the angels fly to guard you and their watch shall never cease, And the fairies there await you; they have splendid dreams to spin; You shall hear them gayly singing as the dreamboat's putting in.

Like the ripple of the water does the dreamboat's whistle blow, Only baby ears can catch it when it comes the time to go, Only little ones may journey on so wonderful a ship, And go drifting off to slumber with no care to mar the trip.

Oh, the little eyes are heavy but the little soul is light; It shall never know a sorrow or a terror through the night.

And at last when dawn is breaking and the dreamboat's trip is o'er, You shall wake to find the mother smiling over you once more.

The Old-Fashioned Parents

The good old-fashioned mothers and the good old-fashioned dads, With their good old-fashioned la.s.sies and their good old-fashioned lads, Still walk the lanes of loving in their simple, tender ways, As they used to do back yonder in the good old-fashioned days.

They dwell in every city and they live in every town, Contentedly and happy and not hungry for renown; On every street you'll find 'em in their simple garments clad, The good old-fashioned mother and the good old-fashioned dad.

There are some who sigh for riches, there are some who yearn for fame, And a few misguided people who no longer blush at shame; But the world is full of mothers, and the world is full of dads; Who are making sacrifices for their little girls and lads.

They are growing old together, arm in arm they walk along, And their hearts with love are beating and their voices sweet with song; They still share their disappointments and they share their pleasures, too, And whatever be their fortune, to each other they are true.

They are watching at the bedside of a baby pale and white, And they kneel and pray together for the care of G.o.d at night; They are romping with their children in the fields of clover sweet, And devotedly they guard them from the perils of the street.

They are here in countless numbers, just as they have always been, And their glory is untainted by the selfish and the mean.

And I'd hate to still be living, it would dismal be and sad, If we'd no old-fashioned mother and we'd no old-fashioned dad.

The Fun of Forgiving

Sometimes I'm almost glad to hear when I get home that they've been bad; And though I try to look severe, within my heart I'm really glad When mother sadly tells to me the list of awful things they've done, Because when they come tearfully, forgiving them is so much fun.

I like to have them all alone, with no one near to hear or see, Then as their little faults they own, I like to take them on my knee And talk it over and pretend the whipping soon must be begun; And then to kiss them at the end--forgiving them is so much fun.

Within the world there's no such charm as children penitent and sad, Who put two soft and chubby arms around your neck, when they've been bad.

And as you view their trembling lips, away your temper starts to run, And from your mind all anger slips--forgiving them is so much fun.

If there were nothing to forgive I wonder if we'd love them so; If they were wise enough to live as grown-ups do, and always go Along the pleasant path of right, with ne'er a fault from sun to sun, A lot of joys we'd miss at night--forgiving them is so much fun.

Tonsils

One day the doctor came because my throat was feeling awful sore, And when he looked inside to see he said: "It's like it was before; It's tonserlitis, sure enough. You'd better tell her Pa to-day To make his mind up now to have that little party right away."

I'd heard him talk that way before when Bud was sick, and so I knew That what they did to him that time, to me they planned to come and do.

An' when my Pa came home that night Ma said: "She can't grow strong and stout Until the doctor comes an' takes her addynoids an' tonsils out."

An' then Pa took me on his knee and kissed me solemn-like an' grave, An' said he guessed it was the best, an' then he asked me to be brave.

Ma said: "Don't look at her like that, it's nothing to be scared about"; An' Pa said: "True, but still I wish she needn't have her tonsils out."

Next morning when I woke, Ma said I couldn't have my breakfast then, Because the doctors and the nurse had said they would be here by ten.

When they got here the doctor smiled an' gave me some perfume to smell, An' told me not to cry at all, coz pretty soon I would be well.

When I woke up Ma smiled an' said: "It's all right now"; but in my head It seemed like wheels were buzzing round and everywhere I looked was red.

An' I can't eat hard cookies yet, nor use my voice at all to shout, But Pa an' Ma seem awful glad that I have had my tonsils out.

At Dawn

They come to my room at the break of the day, With their faces all smiles and their minds full of play; They come on their tip-toes and silently creep To the edge of the bed where I'm lying asleep, And then at a signal, on which they agree, With a shout of delight they jump right onto me.

They lift up my eyelids and tickle my nose, And scratch at my cheeks with their little pink toes; And sometimes to give them a laugh and a scare I snap and I growl like a cinnamon bear; Then over I roll, and with three kids astride I gallop away on their feather-bed ride.