Mother's Day

Let every day be Mother's Day!

Make roses grow along her way And beauty everywhere.

Oh, never let her eyes be wet With tears of sorrow or regret, And never cease to care!

Come, grown up children, and rejoice That you can hear your mother's voice!

A day for her! For you she gave Long years of love and service brave; For you her youth was spent.

There was no weight of hurt or care Too heavy for her strength to bear; She followed where you went; Her courage and her love sublime You could depend on all the time.

No day or night she set apart On which to open wide her heart And welcome you within; There was no hour you would not be First in her thought and memory, Though you were black as sin!

Though skies were gray or skies were blue Not once has she forgotten you.

Let every day be Mother's Day!

With love and roses strew her way, And smiles of joy and pride!

Come, grown up children, to the knee Where long ago you used to be And never turn aside; Oh, never let her eyes grow wet With tears, because her babes forget.

When We Play the Fool

Last night I stood in a tawdry place And watched the ways of the human race.

I looked at a party of shrieking girls Piled on a table that whirls and whirls, And saw them thrown in a tangled heap, Sprawling and squirming and several deep.

And unto the wife who was standing by, "These are all angels to be," said I.

I followed the ways of the merry throng And heard the laughter and mirth and song.

Into a barrel which turned and swayed Men and women a journey made, And tumbling together they seemed to be Like so many porpoises out at sea-- Men and women who'd worked all day, Eagerly seeking a chance to play.

"What do you make of it all?" she said.

I answered: "The dead are a long time dead, And care is bitter and duty stern, And each must weep when it comes his turn.

And all grow weary and long for play, So here is laughter to end the day.

Foolish? Oh, yes, it is that," said I, "But better the laugh than the dreary sigh.

"Now look at us here, for we're like them, too, And many the foolish things we do.

We often grow silly and seek a smile In a thousand ways that are not worth while; Yet after the mirth and the jest are through, We shall all be judged by the deeds we do, And G.o.d shall forget on the Judgment Day The fools we were in our hours of play."

What Makes an Artist

We got to talking art one day, discussing in a general way How some can match with brush and paint the glory of a tree, And some in stone can catch the things of which the dreamy poet sings, While others seem to have no way to tell the joys they see.

Old Blake had sat in silence there and let each one of us declare Our notions of what's known as art, until he'd heard us through; And then said he: "It seems to me that any man, whoe'er he be, Becomes an artist by the good he daily tries to do.

"He need not write the books men read to be an artist. No, indeed!

He need not work with paint and brush to show his love of art; Who does a kindly deed to-day and helps another on his way, Has painted beauty on a face and played the poet's part.

"Though some of us cannot express our inmost thoughts of loveliness, We prove we love the beautiful by how we act and live; The poet singing of a tree no greater poet is than he Who finds it in his heart some care unto a tree to give.

"Though he who works in marble stone the name of artist here may own, No less an artist is the man who guards his children well; 'Tis art to love the fine and true; by what we are and what we do How much we love life's n.o.bler things to all the world we tell."

She Powders Her Nose

A woman is queer, there's no doubt about that.

She hates to be thin and she hates to be fat; One minute it's laughter, the next it's a cry-- You can't understand her, however you try; But there's one thing about her which everyone knows-- A woman's not dressed till she powders her nose.

You never can tell what a woman will say; She's a law to herself every hour of the day.

It keeps a man guessing to know what to do, And mostly he's wrong when his guessing is through; But this you can bet on, wherever she goes She'll find some occasion to powder her nose.

I've studied the s.e.x for a number of years; I've watched her in laughter and seen her in tears; On her ways and her whims I have pondered a lot, To find what will please her and just what will not; But all that I've learned from the start to the close Is that sooner or later she'll powder her nose.

At church or a ball game, a dance or a show, There's one thing about her I know that I know-- At weddings or funerals, dinners of taste, You can bet that her hand will dive into her waist, And every few minutes she'll strike up a pose, And the whole world must wait till she powders her nose.

The Chip on Your Shoulder

You'll learn when you're older that chip on your shoulder Which you dare other boys to upset, And stand up and fight for and struggle and smite for, Has caused you much shame and regret.

When Time, life's adviser, has made you much wiser, You won't be so quick with the blow; You won't be so willing to fight for a shilling, And change a good friend to a foe.

You won't be a sticker for trifles, and bicker And quarrel for nothing at all; You'll grow to be kinder, more thoughtful and blinder To faults which are petty and small.

You won't take the trouble your two fists to double When someone your pride may offend; When with rage now you bristle you'll smile or you'll whistle, And keep the good will of a friend.

You'll learn when you're older that chip on your shoulder Which proudly you battle to guard, Has frequently shamed you and often defamed you And left you a record that's marred!

When you've grown calm and steady, you won't be so ready To fight for a difference that's small, For you'll know, when you're older that chip on your shoulder Is only a chip after all.

All for the Best

Things mostly happen for the best.

However hard it seems to-day, When some fond plan has gone astray Or what you've wished for most is lost An' you sit countin' up the cost With eyes half-blind by tears o' grief While doubt is chokin' out belief, You'll find when all is understood That what seemed bad was really good.

Life can't be counted in a day.