A Heap O' Livin Part 2

THE PATH THAT LEADS TO HOME

The little path that leads to home, That is the road for me, I know no finer path to roam, With finer sights to see.

With thoroughfares the world is lined That lead to wonders new, But he who treads them leaves behind The tender things and true.

Oh, north and south and east and west The crowded roadways go, And sweating brow and weary breast Are all they seem to know.

And mad for pleasure some are bent, And some are seeking fame, And some are sick with discontent, And some are bruised and lame.

Across the world the gleaming steel Holds out its lure for men, But no one finds his comfort real Till he comes home again.

And charted lanes now line the sea For weary hearts to roam, But, Oh, the finest path to me Is that which leads to home.

'Tis there I come to laughing eyes And find a welcome true; 'Tis there all care behind me lies And joy is ever new.

And, Oh, when every day is done Upon that little street, A pair of rosy youngsters run To me with flying feet.

The world with myriad paths is lined But one alone for me, One little road where I may find The charms I want to see.

Though thoroughfares majestic call The mult.i.tude to roam, I would not leave, to know them all, The path that leads to home.

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A FRIEND'S GREETING

I'd like to be the sort of friend that you have been to me; I'd like to be the help that you've been always glad to be; I'd like to mean as much to you each minute of the day As you have meant, old friend of mine, to me along the way.

I'd like to do the big things and the splendid things for you, To brush the gray from out your skies and leave them only blue; I'd like to say the kindly things that I so oft have heard, And feel that I could rouse your soul the way that mine you've stirred.

I'd like to give you back the joy that you have given me, Yet that were wishing you a need I hope will never be; I'd like to make you feel as rich as I, who travel on Undaunted in the darkest hours with you to lean upon.

I'm wishing at this Christmas time that I could but repay A portion of the gladness that you've strewn along my way; And could I have one wish this year, this only would it be: I'd like to be the sort of friend that you have been to me.

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A SONG

None knows the day that friends must part None knows how near is sorrow; If there be laughter in your heart, Don't hold it for to-morrow.

Smile all the smiles you can to-day; Grief waits for all along the way.

To-day is ours for joy and mirth; We may be sad to-morrow; Then let us sing for all we've worth, Nor give a thought to sorrow.

None knows what lies along the way; Let's smile what smiles we can to-day.

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OLD FRIENDS

I do not say new friends are not considerate and true, Or that their smiles ain't genuine, but still I'm tellin' you That when a feller's heart is crushed and achin'

with the pain, And teardrops come a-splashin' down his cheeks like summer rain, Becoz his grief an' loneliness are more than he can bear, Somehow it's only old friends, then, that really seem to care.

The friends who've stuck through thick an'

thin, who've known you, good an' bad, Your faults an' virtues, an' have seen the struggles you have had, When they come to you gentle-like an' take your hand an' say: "Cheer up! we're with you still," it counts, for that's the old friends' way.

The new friends may be fond of you for what you are to-day; They've only known you rich, perhaps, an' only seen you gay; You can't tell what's attracted them; your station may appeal; Perhaps they smile on you because you're doin'

something real; But old friends who have seen you fail, an' also seen you win, Who've loved you either up or down, stuck to you, thick or thin, Who knew you as a budding youth, an' watched you start to climb, Through weal an' woe, still friends of yours an' constant all the time, When trouble comes an' things go wrong, I don't care what you say, They are the friends you'll turn to, for you want the old friends' way.

The new friends may be richer, an' more stylish, too, but when Your heart is achin' an' you think your sun won't shine again, It's not the riches of new friends you want, it's not their style, It's not the airs of grandeur then, it's just the old friend's smile, The old hand that has helped before, stretched out once more to you, The old words ringin' in your ears, so sweet an', Oh, so true!

The tenderness of folks who know just what your sorrow means, These are the things on which, somehow, your spirit always leans.

When grief is poundin' at your breast--the new friends disappear An' to the old ones tried an' true, you turn for aid an' cheer.

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FOLKS

We was speakin' of folks, jes' common folks, An' we come to this conclusion, That wherever they be, on land or sea, They warm to a home allusion; That under the skin an' under the hide There's a spark that starts a-glowin'

Whenever they look at a scene or book That something of home is showin'.

They may differ in creeds an' politics, They may argue an' even quarrel, But their throats grip tight, if they catch a sight Of their favorite elm or laurel.

An' the winding lane that they used to tread With never a care to fret 'em, Or the pasture gate where they used to wait, Right under the skin will get 'em.

Now folks is folks on their different ways, With their different griefs an' pleasures, But the home they knew, when their years were few, Is the dearest of all their treasures.

An' the richest man to the poorest waif Right under the skin is brother When they stand an' sigh, with a tear-dimmed eye, At a thought of the dear old mother.

It makes no difference where it may be, Nor the fortunes that years may alter, Be they simple or wise, the old home ties Make all of 'em often falter.

Time may robe 'em in sackcloth coa.r.s.e Or garb 'em in gorgeous splendor, But whatever their lot, they keep one spot Down deep that is sweet an' tender.

We was speakin' of folks, jes' common folks, An' we come to this conclusion, That one an' all, be they great or small, Will warm to a home allusion; That under the skin an' the beaten hide They're kin in a real affection For the joys they knew, when their years were few, An' the home of their recollection.

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LITTLE MASTER MISCHIEVOUS

Little Master Mischievous, that's the name for you; There's no better t.i.tle that describes the things you do: Into something all the while where you shouldn't be, Prying into matters that are not for you to see; Little Master Mischievous, order's overthrown If your mother leaves you for a minute all alone.

Little Master Mischievous, opening every door, Spilling books and papers round about the parlor floor, Scratching all the tables and marring all the chairs, Climbing where you shouldn't climb and tumbling down the stairs.

How'd you get the ink well? We can never guess.

Now the rug is ruined; so's your little dress.

Little Master Mischievous, in the cookie jar, Who has ever told you where the cookies are?

Now your sticky fingers smear the curtains white; You have finger-printed everything in sight.

There's no use in scolding; when you smile that way You can rob of terror every word we say.

Little Master Mischievous, that's the name for you; There's no better t.i.tle that describes the things you do: Prying into corners, peering into nooks, Tugging table covers, tearing costly books.

Little Master Mischievous, have your roguish way; Time, I know, will stop you, soon enough some day.

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OPPORTUNITY

So long as men shall be on earth There will be tasks for them to do, Some way for them to show their worth; Each day shall bring its problems new.

And men shall dream of mightier deeds Than ever have been done before: There always shall be human needs For men to work and struggle for.

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