A Heap O' Livin Part 18

Notwithstandin' the pain an' the sufferin' they see, They cling to the notion that they should go free: That they shouldn't share In life's trouble an' care But should always be happy an' never perplexed, An' never discouraged or beaten or vexed.

When life treats 'em roughly an' jolts 'em with care, They seem to imagine it's bein' unfair.

It's a curious notion folks hold in their pride, That their souls should never be tested or tried; That others must mourn An' be sick an' forlorn An' stand by the biers of their loved ones an' weep, But life from such sorrows their bosoms must keep.

Oh, they mustn't know what it means to be sad, Or they'll wail that the treatment they're gettin'

is bad.

Now life as I view it means pleasure an' pain, An' laughter an' weepin' an' sunshine an' rain, An' takin' an' givin'; An' all who are livin'

Must face it an' bear it the best that they can Believin' great Wisdom is workin' the plan.

An' no one should ever complain it's unfair Because at the moment he's tastin' despair.

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HARD WORK

One day, in ages dark and dim, A toiler, weary, worn and faint, Who found his task too much for him, Gave voice unto a sad complaint.

And seeking emphasis to give Unto his trials (day-starred!) Coupled to "work" this adjective, This little word of terror: _Hard_.

And from that day to this has work Its frightening description worn; 'Tis spoken daily by the shirk, The first cloud on the sky at morn.

To-day when there are tasks to do, Save that we keep ourselves on guard With fearful doubtings them we view, And think and speak of them as hard.

That little but ill-chosen word Has wrought great havoc with men's souls, Has chilled the hearts ambition stirred And held the pa.s.s to splendid goals.

Great dreams have faded and been lost, Fine youth by it been sadly marred As plants beneath a withering frost, Because men thought and whispered: "Hard."

Let's think of work in terms of hope And speak of it with words of praise, And tell the joy it is to grope Along the new, untrodden ways!

Let's break this habit of despair And cheerfully our task regard; The road to happiness lies there: Why think or speak of it as hard?

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GRAt.i.tUDE

Be grateful for the kindly friends that walk along your way; Be grateful for the skies of blue that smile from day to day; Be grateful for the health you own, the work you find to do, For round about you there are men less fortunate than you.

Be grateful for the growing trees, the roses soon to bloom, The tenderness of kindly hearts that shared your days of gloom; Be grateful for the morning dew, the gra.s.s beneath your feet, The soft caresses of your babes and all their laughter sweet.

Acquire the grateful habit, learn to see how blest you are, How much there is to gladden life, how little life to mar!

And what if rain shall fall to-day and you with grief are sad; Be grateful that you can recall the joys that you have had.

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A REAL MAN

Men are of two kinds, and he Was of the kind I'd like to be.

Some preach their virtues, and a few Express their lives by what they do.

That sort was he. No flowery phrase Or glibly spoken words of praise Won friends for him. He wasn't cheap Or shallow, but his course ran deep, And it was pure. You know the kind.

Not many in a life you find Whose deeds outrun their words so far That more than what they seem they are.

There are two kinds of lies as well: The kind you live, the ones you tell.

Back through his years from age to youth He never acted one untruth.

Out in the open light he fought And didn't care what others thought Nor what they said about his fight If he believed that he was right.

The only deeds he ever hid Were acts of kindness that he did.

What speech he had was plain and blunt.

His was an unattractive front.

Yet children loved him; babe and boy Played with the strength he could employ, Without one fear, and they are fleet To sense injustice and deceit.

No back door gossip linked his name With any shady tale of shame.

He did not have to compromise With evil-doers, shrewd and wise, And let them ply their vicious trade Because of some past escapade.

Men are of two kinds, and he Was of the kind I'd like to be.

No door at which he ever knocked Against his manly form was locked.

If ever man on earth was free And independent, it was he.

No broken pledge lost him respect, He met all men with head erect, And when he pa.s.sed I think there went A soul to yonder firmament So white, so splendid and so fine It came almost to G.o.d's design.

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THE NEIGHBORLY MAN

Some are eager to be famous, some are striving to be great, Some are toiling to be leaders of their nation or their state, And in every man's ambition, if we only understood, There is much that's fine and splendid; every hope is mostly good.

So I cling unto the notion that contented I will be If the men upon life's pathway find a needed friend in me.

I rather like to putter 'round the walks and yards of life, To spray at night the roses that are burned and browned with strife; To eat a frugal dinner, but always to have a chair For the unexpected stranger that my simple meal would share.

I don't care to be a traveler, I would rather be the one Sitting calmly by the roadside helping weary travelers on.

I'd like to be a neighbor in the good old-fashioned way, Finding much to do for others, but not over much to say.

I like to read the papers, but I do not yearn to see What the journal of the morning has been moved to say of me; In the silences and shadows I would live my life and die And depend for fond remembrance on some grateful pa.s.sers-by.

I guess I wasn't fashioned for the brilliant things of earth, Wasn't gifted much with talent or designed for special worth, But was just sent here to putter with life's little odds and ends And keep a simple corner where the stirring highway bends, And if folks should chance to linger, worn and weary through the day, To do some needed service and to cheer them on their way.

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ROSES

When G.o.d first viewed the rose He'd made He smiled, and thought it pa.s.sing fair; Upon the bloom His hands He laid, And gently blessed each petal there.

He summoned in His artists then And bade them paint, as ne'er before, Each petal, so that earthly men Might love the rose for evermore.

With Heavenly brushes they began And one with red limned every leaf, To signify the love of man; The first rose, white, betokened grief; "My rose shall deck the bride," one said And so in pink he dipped his brush, "And it shall smile beside the dead To typify the faded blush."

And then they came unto His throne And laid the roses at His feet, The crimson bud, the bloom full blown, Filling the air with fragrance sweet.

"Well done, well done!" the Master spake; "Henceforth the rose shall bloom on earth: One fairer blossom I will make,"

And then a little babe had birth.

On earth a loving mother lay Within a rose-decked room and smiled, But from the blossoms turned away To gently kiss her little child, And then she murmured soft and low, "For beauty, here, a mother seeks.

None but the Master made, I know, The roses in a baby's cheeks."

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THE JUNK BOX

My father often used to say: "My boy don't throw a thing away: You'll find a use for it some day."