A Heap O' Livin Part 15

The daydreams of the urchin there, The sweet theme of the maiden's prayer, The strong man's one ambition, The sacred prize of mothers sweet, The tramp of soldiers on the street Have all the selfsame mission.

Life here is nothing more or less Than just a quest for happiness.

Some seek it on the mountain top, And some within a mine; The widow in her notion shop Expects its sun to shine.

The tramp that seeks new roads to fare, Is one with king and millionaire In this that each is groping On different roads, in different ways, To come to glad, contented days, And shares the common hoping.

The sound of martial fife and drum Is born of happiness to come.

Yet happiness is always here Had we the eyes to see it; No breast but holds a fund of cheer Had man the will to free it.

'Tis there upon the mountain top, Or in the widow's notion shop, 'Tis found in homes of sorrow; 'Tis woven in the memories Of happier, brighter days than these, The gift, not of to-morrow But of to-day, and in our tears Some touch of happiness appears.

'Tis not a joy that's born of wealth: The poor man may possess it.

'Tis not alone the prize of health: No sickness can repress it.

'Tis not the end of mortal strife, The sunset of the day of life, Or but the old should find it; It is the bond twixt G.o.d and man, The touch divine in all we plan, And has the soul behind it.

And so this toast to happiness, The seed of which we all possess.

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GUESSING TIME

It's guessing time at our house; every evening after tea We start guessing what old Santa's going to leave us on our tree.

Everyone of us holds secrets that the others try to steal, And that eyes and lips are plainly having trouble to conceal.

And a little lip that quivered just a bit the other night Was a sad and startling warning that I mustn't guess it right.

"Guess what you will get for Christmas!" is the cry that starts the fun.

And I answer: "Give the letter with which the name's begun."

Oh, the eyes that dance around me and the joyous faces there Keep me nightly guessing wildly: "Is it something I can wear?"

I implore them all to tell me in a frantic sort of way And pretend that I am puzzled, just to keep them feeling gay.

Oh, the wise and knowing glances that across the table fly And the winks exchanged with mother, that they think I never spy; Oh, the whispered confidences that are poured into her ear, And the laughter gay that follows when I try my best to hear!

Oh, the shouts of glad derision when I bet that it's a cane, And the merry answering chorus: "No, it's not. Just guess again!"

It's guessing time at our house, and the fun is running fast, And I wish somehow this contest of delight could always last, For the love that's in their faces and their laughter ringing clear Is their dad's most precious present when the Christmas time is near.

And soon as it is over, when the tree is bare and plain, I shall start in looking forward to the time to guess again.

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UNDERSTANDING

When I was young and frivolous and never stopped to think, When I was always doing wrong, or just upon the brink; When I was just a lad of seven and eight and nine and ten, It seemed to me that every day I got in trouble then, And strangers used to shake their heads and say I was no good, But father always stuck to me--it seems he understood.

I used to have to go to him 'most every night and say The dreadful things that I had done to worry folks that day.

I know I didn't mean to be a turmoil round the place, And with the womenfolks about forever in disgrace; To do the way they said I should, I tried the best I could, But though they scolded me a lot--my father understood.

He never seemed to think it queer that I should risk my bones, Or fight with other boys at times, or pelt a cat with stones; An' when I'd break a window pane, it used to make him sad, But though the neighbors said I was, he never thought me bad; He never whipped me, as they used to say to me he should; That boys can't always do what's right--it seemed he understood.

Now there's that little chap of mine, just full of life and fun, Comes up to me with solemn face to tell the bad he's done.

It's natural for any boy to be a roguish elf, He hasn't time to stop and think and figure for himself, And though the womenfolks insist that I should take a hand, They've never been a boy themselves, and they don't understand.

Some day I've got to go up there, and make a sad report And tell the Father of us all where I have fallen short; And there will be a lot of wrong I never meant to do, A lot of smudges on my sheet that He will have to view.

And little chance for heavenly bliss, up there, will I command, Unless the Father smiles and says: "My boy, I understand."

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PEOPLE LIKED HIM

People liked him, not because He was rich or known to fame; He had never won applause As a star in any game.

His was not a brilliant style, His was not a forceful way, But he had a gentle smile And a kindly word to say.

Never arrogant or proud, On he went with manner mild; Never quarrelsome or loud, Just as simple as a child; Honest, patient, brave and true: Thus he lived from day to day, Doing what he found to do In a cheerful sort of way.

Wasn't one to boast of gold Or belittle it with sneers, Didn't change from hot to cold, Kept his friends throughout the years, Sort of man you like to meet Any time or any place.

There was always something sweet And refreshing in his face.

Sort of man you'd like to be: Balanced well and truly square; Patient in adversity, Generous when his skies were fair.

Never lied to friend or foe, Never rash in word or deed, Quick to come and slow to go In a neighbor's time of need.

Never rose to wealth or fame, Simply lived, and simply died, But the pa.s.sing of his name Left a sorrow, far and wide.

Not for glory he'd attained, Nor for what he had of pelf, Were the friends that he had gained, But for what he was himself.

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WHEN FATHER SHOOK THE STOVE

'Twas not so many years ago, Say, twenty-two or three, When zero weather or below Held many a thrill for me.

Then in my icy room I slept A youngster's sweet repose, And always on my form I kept My flannel underclothes.

Then I was roused by sudden shock Though still to sleep I strove, I knew that it was seven o'clock When father shook the stove.

I never heard him quit his bed Or his alarm clock ring; I never heard his gentle tread, Or his attempts to sing; The sun that found my window pane On me was wholly lost, Though many a sunbeam tried in vain To penetrate the frost.

To human voice I never stirred, But deeper down I dove Beneath the covers, when I heard My father shake the stove.

To-day it all comes back to me And I can hear it still; He seemed to take a special glee In shaking with a will.

He flung the noisy dampers back, Then rattled steel on steel, Until the force of his attack The building seemed to feel.

Though I'd a youngster's heavy eyes All sleep from them he drove; It seemed to me the dead must rise When father shook the stove.

Now radiators thump and pound And every room is warm, And modern men new ways have found To shield us from the storm.

The window panes are seldom glossed The way they used to be; The pictures left by old Jack Frost Our children never see.

And now that he has gone to rest In G.o.d's great slumber grove, I often think those days were best When father shook the stove.

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HOUSE-HUNTING

Time was when spring returned we went To find another home to rent; We wanted fresher, cleaner walls, And bigger rooms and wider halls, And open plumbing and the dome That made the fashionable home.

But now with spring we want to sell, And seek a finer place to dwell.

Our thoughts have turned from dens and domes; We want the latest thing in homes; To life we'll not be reconciled Until we have a bathroom tiled.

A butler's pantry we desire, Although no butler do we hire; Nell's life will be one round of gloom Without a closet for the broom, And mine will dreary be and sour Unless the bathroom has a shower.

For months and months we've sat and dreamed Of paneled walls and ceilings beamed And built-in cases for the books, An attic room to be the cook's.