The Path to Home Part 12

"It's a Boy"

The doctor leads a busy life, he wages war with death; Long hours he spends to help the one who's fighting hard for breath; He cannot call his time his own, nor share in others' fun, His duties claim him through the night when others' work is done.

And yet the doctor seems to be G.o.d's messenger of joy, Appointed to announce this news of gladness: "It's a boy!"

In many ways unpleasant is the doctor's round of cares, I should not like to have to bear the burdens that he bears; His eyes must look on horrors grim, unmoved he must remain, Emotion he must master if he hopes to conquer pain; Yet to his lot this duty falls, his voice he must employ To speak to man the happiest phrase that's sounded: "It's a boy!"

I wish 'twere given me to speak a message half so glad As that the doctor brings unto the fear-distracted dad.

I wish that simple words of mine could change the skies to blue, And lift the care from troubled hearts, as those he utters do.

I wish that I could banish all the thoughts that man annoy, And cheer him as the doctor does, who whispers: "It's a boy."

Whoever through the hours of night has stood outside her door, And wondered if she'd smile again; whoe'er has paced the floor, And lived those years of fearful thoughts, and then been swept from woe Up to the topmost height of bliss that's given man to know, Will tell you there's no phrase so sweet, so charged with human joy As that the doctor brings from G.o.d--that message: "It's a boy!"

The Finest Fellows.h.i.+p

There may be finer pleasures than just tramping with your boy, And better ways to spend a day; there may be sweeter joy; There may be richer fellows.h.i.+p than that of son and dad, But if there is, I know it not; it's one I've never had.

Oh, some may choose to walk with kings and men of pomp and pride, But as for me, I choose to have my youngster at my side.

And some may like the rosy ways of grown-up pleasures glad, But I would go a-wandering with just a little lad.

Yes, I would seek the woods with him and talk to him of trees, And learn to know the birds a-wing and hear their melodies; And I would drop all worldly care and be a boy awhile; Then hand-in-hand come home at dusk to see the mother smile.

Grown men are wearisome at times, and selfish pleasures jar, But sons and dads throughout the world the truest comrades are.

So when I want a perfect day with every joy that's fine, I spend it in the open with that little lad o' mine.

Different

The kids at our house number three, As different as they can be; And if perchance they numbered six Each one would have particular tricks, And certain little whims and fads Unlike the other girls and lads.

No two glad rascals can you name Whom G.o.d has fas.h.i.+oned just the same.

Bud's tough and full of life and fun And likes to race about and run, And tease the girls; the rascal knows The slyest ways to pinch a nose, And yank a curl until it hurts, And disarrange their Sunday skirts.

Sometimes he trips them, heads o'er heels, To glory in their frenzied squeals.

And Marjorie: She'd have more joy, She thinks, if she'd been born a boy; She wants no ribbons on her hair, No fancy, fussy things to wear.

The things in which Sylvia delights To Marjorie are dreadful frights.

They're sisters, yet I'd swear the name Is all they own that is the same.

Proud Sylvia, beautiful to see, A high-toned lady wants to be; She'll primp and fuss and deck her hair And gorgeous raiment wants to wear; She'll sit sedately by the light And read a fairy tale at night; And she will sigh and sometimes wince At all the trials of the prince.

If G.o.d should send us children nine To follow our ancestral line, I'd vow that in the lot we'd strike No two among them just alike.

And that's the way it ought to be; The larger grows the family, The more we own of joy and bliss, For each brings charms the others miss.

There Will Always Be Something to Do

There will always be something to do, my boy; There will always be wrongs to right; There will always be need for a manly breed And men unafraid to fight.

There will always be honor to guard, my boy; There will always be hills to climb, And tasks to do, and battles new From now to the end of time.

There will always be dangers to face, my boy; There will always be goals to take; Men shall be tried, when the roads divide, And proved by the choice they make.

There will always be burdens to bear, my boy; There will always be need to pray; There will always be tears through the future years, As loved ones are borne away.

There will always be G.o.d to serve, my boy, And always the Flag above; They shall call to you until life is through For courage and strength and love.

So these are things that I dream, my boy, And have dreamed since your life began: That whatever befalls, when the old world calls, It shall find you a st.u.r.dy man.

A Boy at Christmas

If I could have my wish to-night it would not be for wealth or fame, It would not be for some delight that men who live in luxury claim, But it would be that I might rise at three or four a. m. to see, With eager, happy, boyish eyes, my presents on the Christmas tree.

Throughout this world there is no joy, I know now I am growing gray, So rich as being just a boy, a little boy on Christmas Day.

I'd like once more to stand and gaze enraptured on a tinseled tree, With eyes that know just how to blaze, a heart still tuned to ecstasy; I'd like to feel the old delight, the surging thrills within me come; To love a thing with all my might, to grasp the pleasure of a drum; To know the meaning of a toy--a meaning lost to minds blase; To be just once again a boy, a little boy on Christmas Day.

I'd like to see a pair of skates the way they looked to me back then, Before I'd turned from boyhood's gates and marched into the world of men; I'd like to see a jackknife, too, with those same eager, dancing eyes That couldn't fault or blemish view; I'd like to feel the same surprise, The pleasure, free from all alloy, that has forever pa.s.sed away, When I was just a little boy and had my faith in Christmas Day.

Oh, little, laughing, roguish lad, the king that rules across the sea Would give his scepter if he had such joy as now belongs to thee!

And beards of gray would give their gold, and all the honors they possess, Once more within their grasp to hold thy present fee of happiness.

Earth sends no greater, surer joy, as, too soon, thou, as I, shall say, Than that of him who is a boy, a little boy on Christmas Day.

Best Way to Read a Book

Best way to read a book I know Is get a lad of six or so, And curl him up upon my knee Deep in a big arm chair, where we Can catch the warmth of blazing coals, And then let two contented souls Melt into one, old age and youth, Sharing adventure's marvelous truth.

I read a page, and then we sit And talk it over, bit by bit; Just how the pirates looked, and why They flung a black flag to the sky.

We pa.s.s no paragraph without First knowing what it's all about, And when the author starts a fight We join the forces that are right.

We're deep in Treasure Island, and From Spy Gla.s.s Hill we've viewed the land; Through thickets dense we've followed Jim And shared the doubts that came to him.

We've heard Cap. Smollett arguing there With Long John Silver, gaunt and spare, And mastering our many fears We've battled with those buccaneers.