When Day is Done Part 18

Oh, man must dream of gladness wherever his pathways lead, And a hint of something better is written in every creed; And n.o.body wakes at morning but hopes ere the day is o'er To have come to a richer pleasure than ever he's known before.

For man is a dreamer ever. He glimpses the hills afar And plans for the joys off yonder where all his to-morrows are; When trials and cares beset him, in the distance he still can see A hint of a future splendid and the glory that is to be.

There's never a man among us but cherishes dreams of rest; We toil for that something better than that which is now our best.

Oh, what if the cup be bitter and what if we're racked with pain?

There are wonderful days to follow when never we'll grieve again.

Back of the sound of the hammer, and back of the hissing steam, And back of the hand at the throttle is ever a lofty dream; All of us, great or humble, look over the present need To the dawn of the glad to-morrow which is promised in every creed.

What Is Success?

Success is being friendly when another needs a friend; It's in the cheery words you speak, and in the coins you lend; Success is not alone in skill and deeds of daring great; It's in the roses that you plant beside your garden gate.

Success is in the way you walk the paths of life each day; It's in the little things you do and in the things you say; Success is in the glad h.e.l.lo you give your fellow man; It's in the laughter of your home and all the joys you plan.

Success is not in getting rich or rising high to fame; It's not alone in winning goals which all men hope to claim; It's in the man you are each day, through happiness or care; It's in the cheery words you speak and in the smile you wear.

Success is being big of heart and clean and broad of mind; It's being faithful to your friends, and to the stranger, kind; It's in the children whom you love, and all they learn from you-- Success depends on character and everything you do.

The Three Me's

I'd like to steal a day and be All alone with little me, Little me that used to run Everywhere in search of fun; Little me of long ago Who was glad and didn't know Life is freighted down with care For the backs of men to bear; Little me who thought a smile Ought to linger all the while-- On his Mother's pretty face And a tear should never trace Lines of sorrow, hurt or care On those cheeks so wondrous fair.

I should like once more to be All alone with youthful me; Youthful me who saw the hills Where the sun its splendor spills And was certain that in time To the topmost height he'd climb; Youthful me, serene of soul, Who beheld a s.h.i.+ning goal.

And imagined he could gain Glory without grief or pain, Confident and quick with life, Madly eager for the strife, Knowing not that bitter care Waited for his coming there.

I should like to sit alone With the me now older grown, Like to lead the little me And the youth that used to be Once again along the ways Of our glorious yesterdays.

We could chuckle soft and low At the things we didn't know, And could laugh to think how bold We had been in days of old, And how blind we were to care With its heartache and despair, We could smile away the tears And the pain of later years.

Brothers All

Under the toiler's grimy s.h.i.+rt, Under the sweat and the grease and dirt, Under the rough outside you view, Is a man who thinks and feels as you.

Go talk with him, Go walk with him, Sit down with him by a running stream, Away from the things that are hissing steam, Away from his bench, His hammer and wrench, And the grind of need And the sordid deed, And this you'll find As he bares his mind: In the things which count when this life is through He's as tender and big and as good as you.

Be fair with him, And share with him An hour of time in a restful place, Brother to brother and face to face, And he'll whisper low Of the long ago, Of a loved one dead And the tears he shed; And you'll come to see That in suffering he, With you, is hurt by the self-same rod And turns for help to the self-same G.o.d.

You hope as he, You dream of splendors, and so does he; His children must be as you'd have yours be; He shares your love For the Flag above, He laughs and sings For the self-same things; When he's understood He is mostly good, Thoughtful of others and kind and true, Brave, devoted--and much like you.

Under the toiler's grimy s.h.i.+rt, Under the sweat and the grease and dirt, Under the rough outside you view, Is a man who thinks and feels as you.

When We Understand the Plan

I reckon when the world we leave And cease to smile and cease to grieve, When each of us shall quit the strife And drop the working tools of life, Somewhere, somehow, we'll come to find Just what our Maker had in mind.

Perhaps through clearer eyes than these We'll read life's hidden mysteries, And learn the reason for our tears-- Why sometimes came unhappy years, And why our dearest joys were brief And bound so closely unto grief.

There is so much beyond our scope, As blindly on through life we grope, So much we cannot understand, However wisely we have planned, That all who walk this earth about Are constantly beset by doubt.

No one of us can truly say Why loved ones must be called away, Why hearts are hurt, or e'en explain Why some must suffer years of pain; Yet some day all of us shall know The reason why these things are so.

I reckon in the years to come, When these poor lips of clay are dumb, And these poor hands have ceased to toil, Somewhere upon a fairer soil G.o.d shall to all of us make clear The purpose of our trials here.

The Spoiler

With a twinkle in his eye He'd come gayly walkin' by An' he'd whistle to the children An' he'd beckon 'em to come, Then he'd chuckle low an' say, "Come along, I'm on my way, An' it's I that need your company To buy a little gum."

When his merry call they'd hear, All the children, far an' near, Would come flyin' from the gardens Like the chickens after wheat; When we'd shake our heads an' say: "No, you mustn't go to-day!"

He'd beg to let him have 'em In a pack about his feet.

Oh, he spoiled 'em, one an' all; There was not a youngster small But was over-fed on candy An' was stuffed with lollypops, An' I think his greatest joy Was to get some girl or boy An' bring 'em to their parents All besmeared by chocolate drops.

Now the children's hearts are sore For he comes to them no more, And no more to them he whistles And no more for them he stops; But in Paradise, I think, With his chuckle and his wink, He is leading little angels To the heavenly candy shops.

A Vanished Joy

When I was but a little lad of six and seven and eight, One joy I knew that has been lost in customs up-to-date, Then Sat.u.r.day was baking day and Mother used to make, The while I stood about and watched, the Sunday pies and cake; And I was there to have fulfilled a small boy's fondest wish, The glorious privilege of youth--to sc.r.a.pe the frosting dis.h.!.+

On Sat.u.r.days I never left to wander far away-- I hovered near the kitchen door on Mother's baking day; The fragrant smell of cooking seemed to hold me in its grip, And naught cared I for other sports while there were sweets to sip; I little cared that all my chums had sought the brook to fish; I chose to wait that moment glad when I could sc.r.a.pe the dish.

Full many a slice of apple I have lifted from a pie Before the upper crust went on, escaping Mother's eye; Full many a time my fingers small in artfulness have strayed Into some sweet temptation rare which Mother's hands had made; But eager-eyed and watery-mouthed, I craved the greater boon, When Mother let me clean the dish and lick the frosting spoon.

The baking days of old are gone, our children cannot know The glorious joys that childhood owned and loved so long ago.

New customs change the lives of all and in their heartless way They've robbed us of the glad event once known as baking day.

The stores provide our every need, yet many a time I wish Our kids could know that bygone thrill and sc.r.a.pe the frosting dish.