The Path to Home Part 5

But all my joys were cradled here; 'tis here I've lived my best, 'Tis here, whatever else shall come, we've been our happiest; And though into a stranger's hands this home I shall resign, And take his gold in pay for it, I still shall call it mine.

Daddies

I would rather be the daddy Of a romping, roguish crew, Of a bright-eyed chubby laddie And a little girl or two, Than the monarch of a nation, In his high and lofty seat, Taking empty adoration From the subjects at his feet.

I would rather own their kisses, As at night to me they run, Than to be the king who misses All the simpler forms of fun.

When his dreary day is ending He is dismally alone, But when my sun is descending There are joys for me to own.

He may ride to horns and drumming; I must walk a quiet street, But when once they see me coming, Then on joyous, flying feet They come racing to me madly And I catch them with a swing, And I say it proudly, gladly, That I'm happier than a king.

You may talk of lofty places; You may boast of pomp and power; Men may turn their eager faces To the glory of an hour, But give me the humble station With its joys that long survive, For the daddies of the nation Are the happiest men alive.

Picture Books

I hold the finest picture books Are woods an' fields an' runnin' brooks; An' when the month o' May has done Her paintin', an' the mornin' sun Is lightin' just exactly right Each gorgeous scene for mortal sight, I steal a day from toil an' go To see the springtime's picture show.

It's everywhere I choose to tread-- Perhaps I'll find a violet bed Half hidden by the larger scenes, Or group of ferns, or living greens, So graceful an' so fine, I'll swear That angels must have placed them there To beautify the lonely spot That mortal man would have forgot.

What hand can paint a picture book So marvelous as a runnin' brook?

It matters not what time o' day You visit it, the sunbeams play Upon it just exactly right, The mysteries of G.o.d to light.

No human brush could ever trace A droopin' willow with such grace!

Page after page, new beauties rise To thrill with gladness an' surprise The soul of him who drops his care And seeks the woods to wander there.

Birds, with the angel gift o' song, Make music for him all day long; An' nothin' that is base or mean Disturbs the grandeur of the scene.

There is no hint of hate or strife; The woods display the joy of life, An' answer with a silence fine The scoffer's jeer at power divine.

When doubt is high an' faith is low, Back to the woods an' fields I go, An' say to violet and tree: "No mortal hand has fas.h.i.+oned thee."

Mother's Job

I'm just the man to make things right, To mend a sleigh or make a kite, Or wrestle on the floor and play Those rough and tumble games, but say!

Just let him get an ache or pain, And start to whimper and complain, And from my side he'll quickly flee To clamber on his mother's knee.

I'm good enough to be his horse And race with him along the course.

I'm just the friend he wants each time There is a tree he'd like to climb, And I'm the pal he's eager for When we approach a candy store; But for his mother straight he makes Whene'er his little stomach aches.

He likes, when he is feeling well, The kind of stories that I tell, And I'm his comrade and his chum And I must march behind his drum.

To me through thick and thin he'll stick, Unless he happens to be sick.

In which event, with me he's through-- Only his mother then will do.

The Approach of Christmas

There's a little chap at our house that is being mighty good-- Keeps the front lawn looking tidy in the way we've said he should; Doesn't leave his little wagon, when he's finished with his play, On the sidewalk as he used to; now he puts it right away.

When we call him in to supper, we don't have to stand and shout; It is getting on to Christmas and it's plain he's found it out.

He eats the food we give him without murmur or complaint; He sits up at the table like a cherub or a saint; He doesn't pinch his sister just to hear how loud she'll squeal; Doesn't ask us to excuse him in the middle of the meal, And at eight o'clock he's willing to be tucked away in bed.

It is getting close to Christmas; nothing further need be said.

I chuckle every evening as I see that little elf, With the crooked part proclaiming that he brushed his hair himself.

And I chuckle as I notice that his hands and face are clean, For in him a perfect copy of another boy is seen-- A little boy at Christmas, who was also being good, Never guessing that his father and his mother understood.

There's a little boy at our house that is being mighty good; Doing everything that's proper, doing everything he should.

But besides him there's a grown-up who has learned life's bitter truth, Who is gladly living over all the joys of vanished youth.

And although he little knows it (for it's what I never knew), There's a mighty happy father sitting at the table, too.

The Bride

Little lady at the altar, Vowing by G.o.d's book and psalter To be faithful, fond and true Unto him who stands by you, Think not that romance is ended, That youth's curtain has descended, And love's pretty play is done; For it's only just begun.

Marriage, blus.h.i.+ng little lady, Is love's sunny path and shady, Over which two hearts should wander, Of each other growing fonder.

As you stroll to each to-morrow, You will come to joy and sorrow, And as faithful man and wife Read the troubled book of life.

Bitter cares will some day find you; Closer, closer they will bind you; If together you will bear them, Cares grow sweet when lovers share them.

Love unites two happy mortals, Brings them here to wedlock's portals And then blithely bids them go, Arm in arm, through weal and woe.

Little lady, just remember Every year has its December, Every rising sun its setting, Every life its time of fretting; And the honeymoon's sweet beauty Finds too soon the clouds of duty; But keep faith, when trouble-tried, And in joy you shall abide.

Little lady at the altar, Never let your courage falter, Never stoop to unbelieving, Even when your heart is grieving.

To what comes of wintry weather Or disaster, stand together; Through life's fearful hours of night Love shall bring you to the light.

An Apple Tree in France

An apple tree beside the way, Drinking the suns.h.i.+ne day by day According to the Master's plan, Had been a faithful friend to man.

It had been kind to all who came, Nor asked the traveler's race or name, But with the peasant boy or king Had shared its blossoms in the spring, And from the summer's dreary heat To all had offered sweet retreat.