Practicing Time

Always whenever I want to play I've got to practice an hour a day, Get through breakfast an' make my bed, And Mother says: "Marjorie, run ahead!

There's a time for work and a time for fun, So go and get your practicing done."

And Bud, he chuckles and says to me: "Yes, do your practicing, Marjorie."

A brother's an awful tease, you know, And he just says that 'cause I hate it so.

They leave me alone in the parlor there To play the scales or "The Maiden's Prayer,"

And if I stop, Mother's bound to call, "Marjorie dear, you're not playing at all!

Don't waste your time, but keep right on, Or you'll have to stay when the hour is gone."

Or maybe the maid looks in at me And says: "You're not playing, as I can see.

Just hustle along--I've got work to do And I can't dust the room until you get through."

Then when I've run over the scales and things Like "The Fairies' Dance," or "The Mountain Springs,"

And my fingers ache and my head is sore, I find I must sit there a half hour more.

An hour is terribly long, I say, When you've got to practice and want to play.

So slowly at times has the big hand dropped That I was sure that the clock had stopped, But Mother called down to me: "Don't forget-- A full hour, please. It's not over yet."

Oh, when I get big and have children, too, There's one thing that I will never do-- I won't have brothers to tease the girls And make them mad when they pull their curls And laugh at them when they've got to stay And practice their music an hour a day; I won't have a maid like the one we've got, That likes to boss you around a lot; And I won't have a clock that can go so slow When it's practice time, 'cause I hate it so.

The Christmas Gift for Mother

In the Christmas times of the long ago, There was one event we used to know That was better than any other; It wasn't the toys that we hoped to get, But the talks we had--and I hear them yet-- Of the gift we'd buy for Mother.

If ever love fashioned a Christmas gift, Or saved its money and practiced thrift, 'Twas done in those days, my brother-- Those golden times of Long Gone By, Of our happiest years, when you and I Talked over the gift for Mother.

We hadn't gone forth on our different ways Nor coined our lives into yesterdays In the fires that smelt and smother, And we whispered and planned in our youthful glee Of that marvelous "something" which was to be The gift of our hearts to Mother.

It had to be all that our purse could give, Something she'd treasure while she could live, And better than any other.

We gave it the best of our love and thought, And, Oh, the joy when at last we'd bought That marvelous gift for Mother!

Now I think as we go on our different ways, Of the joy of those vanished yesterdays.

How good it would be, my brother, If this Christmas-time we could only know That same sweet thrill of the Long Ago When we shared in the gift for Mother.

Bedtime

It's bedtime, and we lock the door, Put out the lights--the day is o'er; All that can come of good or ill, The record of this day to fill, Is written down; the worries cease, And old and young may rest in peace.

We knew not when we started out What dangers hedged us all about, What little pleasures we should gain, What should be ours to bear of pain.

But now the fires are burning low, And this day's history we know.

No harm has come. The laughter here Has been unbroken by a tear; We've met no hurt too great to bear, We have not had to bow to care; The children all are safe in bed, There's nothing now for us to dread.

When bedtime comes and we can say That we have safely lived the day.

How sweet the calm that settles down And shuts away the noisy town!

There is no danger now to fear Until to-morrow shall appear.

When the long bedtime comes, and I In sleep eternal come to lie-- When life has nothing more in store, And silently I close the door, G.o.d grant my weary soul may claim Security from hurt and shame.

The Willing Horse

I'd rather be the willing horse that people ride to death Than be the proud and haughty steed that children dare not touch; I'd rather haul a merry pack and finish out of breath Than never leave the barn to toil because I'm worth too much.

So boast your n.o.ble pedigrees And talk of manners, if you please-- The weary horse enjoys his ease When all his work is done; The willing horse, day in and out, Can hear the merry children shout And every time they are about He shares in all their fun.

I want no guards beside my door to pick and choose my friends for me; I would not be shut off from men as is the fancy steed; I do not care when I go by that no one turns his eyes to see The dashing manner of my gait which marks my n.o.ble breed; I am content to trudge the road And willingly to draw my load-- Sometimes to know the spur and goad When I begin to lag; I'd rather feel the collar jerk And tug at me, the while I work, Than all the tasks of life to shirk As does the stylish nag.

So let me be the willing horse that now and then is overtasked, Let me be one the children love and freely dare to ride-- I'd rather be the gentle steed of which too much is sometimes asked Than be the one that never knows the youngsters at his side.

So drive me wheresoe'er you will, On level road or up the hill, Pile on my back the burdens still And run me out of breath-- In love and friendship, day by day, And kindly words I'll take my pay; A willing horse; that is the way I choose to meet my death.

Where Children Play

On every street there's a certain place Where the children gather to romp and race; There's a certain house where they meet in throngs To play their games and to sing their songs, And they trample the lawn with their busy feet And they scatter their playthings about the street, But though some folks order them off, I say, Let the house be mine where the children play.

Armies gather about the door And fill the air with their battle roar; Cowboys swinging their lariat loops Dash round the house with the wildest whoops, And old folks have to look out when they Are holding an Indian tribe at bay, For danger may find them on flying feet, Who pa.s.s by the house where the children meet.

There are lawns too lovely to bear the weight Of a troop of boys when they roller skate; There are porches fine that must never know The stamping of footsteps that come and go, But on every street there's a favorite place Where the children gather to romp and race, And I'm glad in my heart that it's mine to say Ours is the house where the children play.

How Do You Buy Your Money?

How do you buy your money? For money is bought and sold, And each man barters himself on earth for his silver and shining gold, And by the bargain he makes with men, the sum of his life is told.

Some buy their coins in a manly way, some buy them with honest toil; Some pay for their currency here on earth by tilling a patch of soil; Some buy it with copper and iron and steel, and some with barrels of oil.

The good man buys it from day to day by giving the best he can; He coins his strength for his children's needs and lives to a simple plan, And he keeps some time for the home he makes and some for his fellowman.

But some men buy it with women's tears, and some with a blasted name; And some will barter the joy of life for the fortune they hope to claim; And some are so mad for the clink of gold that they buy it with deeds of shame.

How do you buy your money? For money demands its price, And some men think when they purchase coin that they mustn't be over-nice-- But beware of the man who would sell you gold at a shameful sacrifice!