A Lesson from Golf

He couldn't use his driver any better on the tee Than the chap that he was licking, who just happened to be me; I could hit them with a bra.s.sie just as straight and just as far, But I piled up several sevens while he made a few in par; And he trimmed me to a finish, and I know the reason why: He could keep his temper better when he dubbed a shot than I.

His mashie stroke is choppy, without any follow through; I doubt if he will ever, on a short hole, cop a two, But his putts are straight and deadly, and he doesn't even frown When he's tried to hole a long one and just fails to get it down.

On the fourteenth green I faded; there he put me on the shelf, And it's not to his discredit when I say I licked myself.

He never whined or whimpered when a shot of his went wrong; Never kicked about his troubles, but just plodded right along.

When he flubbed an easy iron, though I knew that he was vexed, He merely shrugged his shoulders, and then coolly played the next, While I flew into a frenzy over every dub I made And was loud in my complaining at the dismal game I played.

Golf is like the game of living; it will show up what you are; If you take your troubles badly you will never play to par.

You may be a fine performer when your skies are bright and blue But disaster is the acid that shall prove the worth of you; So just meet your disappointments with a cheery sort of grin, For the man who keeps his temper is the man that's sure to win.

Father's Ch.o.r.e

My Pa can hit his thumbnail with a hammer and keep still; He can cut himself while shaving an' not swear; If a ladder slips beneath him an' he gets a nasty spill He can smile as though he really didn't care.

But the pan beneath the ice-box--when he goes to empty that-- Then a sound-proof room the children have to hunt; For we have a sad few minutes in our very pleasant flat When the water in it splashes down his front.

My Pa believes his temper should be all the time controlled; He doesn't rave at every little thing; When his collar-b.u.t.ton underneath the chiffonier has rolled A s.n.a.t.c.h of merry ragtime he will sing.

But the pan beneath the ice box--when to empty that he goes-- As he stoops to drag it out we hear a grunt; From the kitchen comes a rumble, an' then everybody knows That he splashed the water in it down his front.

Now the distance from the ice box to the sink's not very far-- I'm sure it isn't over twenty feet-- But though very short the journey, it is long enough for Pa As he travels it disaster grim to meet.

And it's seldom that he makes it without accident, although In the summer time it is his nightly stunt; And he says a lot of language that no gentleman should know When the water in it splashes down his front.

The March o' Man

Down to work o' mornings, an' back to home at nights, Down to hours o' labor, an' home to sweet delights; Down to care an' trouble, an' home to love an' rest, With every day a good one, an' every evening blest.

Down to dreary dollars, an' back to home to play, From love to work an' back to love, so slips the day away.

From babies back to business an' back to babes again, From parting kiss to welcome kiss, this marks the march o' men.

Some care between our laughter, a few hours filled with strife, A time to stand on duty, then home to babes and wife; The bugle sounds o' mornings to call us to the fray, But sweet an' low 'tis love that calls us home at close o' day.