A Heap O' Livin Part 11

The s.h.i.+rker never knows a tranquil breast; Peace but rewards the man who does his best.

{110}

NO PLACE TO GO

The happiest nights I ever know Are those when I've No place to go, And the missus says When the day is through: "To-night we haven't A thing to do."

Oh, the joy of it, And the peace untold Of sitting 'round In my slippers old, With my pipe and book In my easy chair, Knowing I needn't Go anywhere.

Needn't hurry My evening meal Nor force the smiles That I do not feel, But can grab a book From a near-by shelf, And drop all sham And be myself.

Oh, the charm of it And the comfort rare; Nothing on earth With it can compare; And I'm sorry for him Who doesn't know The joy of having No place to go.

{111}

DEFEAT

No one is beat till he quits, No one is through till he stops, No matter how hard Failure hits, No matter how often he drops, A fellow's not down till he lies In the dust and refuses to rise.

Fate can slam him and bang him around, And batter his frame till he's sore, But she never can say that he's downed While he bobs up serenely for more.

A fellow's not dead till he dies, Nor beat till no longer he tries.

{112}

A PATRIOTIC WISH

I'd like to be the sort of man the flag could boast about; I'd like to be the sort of man it cannot live without; I'd like to be the type of man That really is American: The head-erect and shoulders-square, Clean-minded fellow, just and fair, That all men picture when they see The glorious banner of the free.

I'd like to be the sort of man the flag now typifies, The kind of man we really want the flag to symbolize; The loyal brother to a trust, The big, unselfish soul and just, The friend of every man oppressed, The strong support of all that's best, The st.u.r.dy chap the banner's meant, Where'er it flies, to represent.

I'd like to be the sort of man the flag's supposed to mean, The man that all in fancy see wherever it is seen, The chap that's ready for a fight Whenever there's a wrong to right, The friend in every time of need, The doer of the daring deed, The clean and generous handed man That is a real American.

{113}

THE PRICE OF JOY

You don't begrudge the labor when the roses start to bloom; You don't recall the dreary days that won you their perfume; You don't recall a single care You spent upon the garden there; And all the toil Of tilling soil Is quite forgot the day the first Pink rosebuds into beauty burst.

You don't begrudge the trials grim when joy has come to you; You don't recall the dreary days when all your skies are blue; And though you've trod a weary mile The ache of it was all worth while; And all the stings And bitter flings Are wiped away upon the day Success comes dancing down the way.

{114}

THE THINGS THAT MAKE A SOLDIER GREAT

The things that make a soldier great and send him out to die, To face the flaming cannon's mouth nor ever question why, Are lilacs by a little porch, the row of tulips red, The peonies and pansies, too, the old petunia bed, The gra.s.s plot where his children play, the roses on the wall: 'Tis these that make a soldier great. He's fighting for them all.

'Tis not the pomp and pride of kings that make a soldier brave; 'Tis not allegiance to the flag that over him may wave; For soldiers never fight so well on land or on the foam As when behind the cause they see the little place called home.

Endanger but that humble street whereon his children run, You make a soldier of the man who never bore a gun.

What is it through the battle smoke the valiant solider sees?

The little garden far away, the budding apple trees, The little patch of ground back there, the children at their play, Perhaps a tiny mound behind the simple church of gray.

The golden thread of courage isn't linked to castle dome But to the spot, where'er it be--the humblest spot called home.

And now the lilacs bud again and all is lovely there And homesick soldiers far away know spring is in the air; The tulips come to bloom again, the gra.s.s once more is green, And every man can see the spot where all his joys have been.

He sees his children smile at him, he hears the bugle call, And only death can stop him now--he's fighting for them all.

{116}

THE JOY OF A DOG

Ma says no, it's too much care An' it will scatter germs an' hair, An' it's a nuisance through and through.

An' barks when you don't want it to; An' carries dirt from off the street, An' tracks the carpets with its feet.

But it's a sign he's growin' up When he is longin' for a pup.

Most every night he comes to me An' climbs a-straddle of my knee An' starts to fondle me an' pet, Then asks me if I've found one yet.

An' ma says: "Now don't tell him yes; You know they make an awful mess."

An' starts their faults to catalogue.

But every boy should have a dog.

An' some night when he comes to me, Deep in my pocket there will be The pup he's hungry to possess Or else I sadly miss my guess.

For I remember all the joy A dog meant to a little boy Who loved it in the long ago, The joy that's now his right to know.

{117}

HOMESICK

It's tough when you are homesick in a strange and distant place; It's anguish when you're hungry for an old-familiar face.

And yearning for the good folks and the joys you used to know, When you're miles away from friends.h.i.+p, is a bitter sort of woe.

But it's tougher, let me tell you, and a stiffer discipline To see them through the window, and to know you can't go in.

Oh, I never knew the meaning of that red sign on the door, Never really understood it, never thought of it before; But I'll never see another since they've tacked one up on mine But I'll think about the father that is barred from all that's fine.

And I'll think about the mother who is prisoner in there So her little son or daughter shall not miss a mother's care.

And I'll share a fellow feeling with the saddest of my kin, The dad beside the gateway of the home he can't go in.

Oh, we laugh and joke together and the mother tries to be Brave and sunny in her prison, and she thinks she's fooling me; And I do my bravest smiling and I feign a merry air In the hope she won't discover that I'm burdened down with care.

But it's only empty laughter, and there's nothing in the grin When you're talking through the window of the home you can't go in.

{118}

THE PERFECT DINNER TABLE

A table cloth that's slightly soiled Where greasy little hands have toiled; The napkins kept in silver rings, And only ordinary things From which to eat, a simple fare, And just the wife and kiddies there, And while I serve, the clatter glad Of little girl and little lad Who have so very much to say About the happenings of the day.

Four big round eyes that dance with glee, Forever flas.h.i.+ng joys at me, Two little tongues that race and run To tell of troubles and of fun; The mother with a patient smile Who knows that she must wait awhile Before she'll get a chance to say What she's discovered through the day.

She steps aside for girl and lad Who have so much to tell their dad.

Our manners may not be the best; Perhaps our elbows often rest Upon the table, and at times That very worst of dinner crimes, That very shameful act and rude Of speaking ere you've downed your food, Too frequently, I fear, is done, So fast the little voices run.

Yet why should table manners stay Those tongues that have so much to say?