A Heap O' Livin Part 3

THE SORROW TUGS

There's a lot of joy in the smiling world, there's plenty of morning sun, And laughter and songs and dances, too, whenever the day's work's done; Full many an hour is a shining one, when viewed by itself apart, But the golden threads in the warp of life are the sorrow tugs at your heart.

Oh, the fun is froth and it blows away, and many a joy's forgot, And the pleasures come and the pleasures go, and memory holds them not; But treasured ever you keep the pain that causes your tears to start, For the sweetest hours are the ones that bring the sorrow tugs at your heart.

The lump in your throat and the little sigh when your baby trudged away The very first time to the big red school--how long will their memory stay?

The fever days and the long black nights you watched as she troubled, slept, And the joy you felt when she smiled once more--how long will that all be kept?

The glad hours live in a feeble way, but the sad ones never die.

His first long trousers caused a pang and you saw them with a sigh.

And the big still house when the boy and girl, unto youth and beauty grown, To college went; will you e'er forget that first grim hour alone?

It seems as you look back over things, that all that you treasure dear Is somehow blent in a wondrous way with a heart pang and a tear.

Though many a day is a joyous one when viewed by itself apart, The golden threads in the warp of life are the sorrow tugs at your heart.

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ONLY A DAD

Only a dad with a tired face, Coming home from the daily race, Bringing little of gold or fame To show how well he has played the game; But glad in his heart that his own rejoice To see him come and to hear his voice.

Only a dad with a brood of four, One of ten million men or more Plodding along in the daily strife, Bearing the whips and the scorns of life, With never a whimper of pain or hate, For the sake of those who at home await.

Only a dad, neither rich nor proud, Merely one of the surging crowd, Toiling, striving from day to day, Facing whatever may come his way, Silent whenever the harsh condemn, And bearing it all for the love of them.

Only a dad but he gives his all, To smooth the way for his children small, Doing with courage stern and grim The deeds that his father did for him.

This is the line that for him I pen: Only a dad, but the best of men.

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HARD KNOCKS

I'm not the man to say that failure's sweet, Nor tell a chap to laugh when things go wrong; I know it hurts to have to take defeat An' no one likes to lose before a throng; It isn't very pleasant not to win When you have done the very best you could; But if you're down, get up an' buckle in-- A lickin' often does a fellow good.

I've seen some chaps who never knew their power Until somebody knocked 'em to the floor; I've known men who discovered in an hour A courage they had never shown before.

I've seen 'em rise from failure to the top By doin' things they hadn't understood Before the day disaster made 'em drop-- A lickin' often does a fellow good.

Success is not the teacher, wise an' true, That gruff old failure is, remember that; She's much too apt to make a fool of you, Which isn't true of blows that knock you flat.

Hard knocks are painful things an' hard to bear, An' most of us would dodge 'em if we could; There's something mighty broadening in care-- A lickin' often does a fellow good.

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SPRING IN THE TRENCHES

It's coming time for planting in that little patch of ground, Where the lad and I made merry as he followed me around; Now the sun is getting higher, and the skies above are blue, And I'm hungry for the garden, and I wish the war was through.

But it's tramp, tramp, tramp, And it's never look behind, And when you see a stranger's kids Pretend that you are blind.

The spring is coming back again, the birds begin to mate; The skies are full of kindness, but the world is full of hate.

And it's I that should be bending now in peace above the soil With laughing eyes and little hands about to bless the toil.

But it's fight, fight, fight, And it's charge at double-quick; A soldier thinking thoughts of home Is one more soldier sick.

Last year I brought the bulbs to bloom and saw the roses bud; This year I'm ankle deep in mire, and most of it is blood.

Last year the mother in the door was glad as she could be; To-day her heart is full of pain, and mine is hurting me.

But it's shoot, shoot, shoot, And when the bullets hiss, Don't let the tears fill up your eyes, For weeping soldiers miss.

Oh, who will tend the roses now and who will sow the seeds?

And who will do the heavy work the little garden needs?

And who will tell the lad of mine the things he wants to know, And take his hand and lead him round the paths we used to go?

For it's charge, charge, charge, And it's face the foe once more; Forget the things you love the most And keep your mind on gore.

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FATHER

Used to wonder just why father Never had much time for play, Used to wonder why he'd rather Work each minute of the day.

Used to wonder why he never Loafed along the road an' shirked; Can't recall a time whenever Father played while others worked.

Father didn't dress in fashion, Sort of hated clothing new; Style with him was not a pa.s.sion; He had other things in view.

Boys are blind to much that's going On about 'em day by day, And I had no way of knowing What became of father's pay.

All I knew was when I needed Shoes I got 'em on the spot; Everything for which I pleaded, Somehow, father always got.

Wondered, season after season, Why he never took a rest, And that _I_ might be the reason Then I never even guessed.

Father set a store on knowledge; If he'd lived to have his way He'd have sent me off to college And the bills been glad to pay.

That, I know, was his ambition: Now and then he used to say He'd have done his earthly mission On my graduation day.

Saw his cheeks were getting paler, Didn't understand just why; Saw his body growing frailer, Then at last I saw him die.

Rest had come! His tasks were ended, Calm was written on his brow; Father's life was big and splendid, And I understand it now.

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LADDIES

Show me the boy who never threw A stone at someone's cat, Or never hurled a s...o...b..ll swift At someone's high silk hat-- Who never ran away from school, To seek the swimming hole, Or slyly from a neighbor's yard Green apples never stole--

Show me the boy who never broke A pane of window gla.s.s, Who never disobeyed the sign That says: "Keep off the gra.s.s."

Who never did a thousand things, That grieve us sore to tell, And I'll show you a little boy Who must be far from well.

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THE LIVING BEAUTIES

I never knew, until they went, How much their laughter really meant I never knew how much the place Depended on each little face; How barren home could be and drear Without its living beauties here.

I never knew that chairs and books Could wear such sad and solemn looks!

That rooms and halls could be at night So still and drained of all delight.

This home is now but brick and board Where bits of furniture are stored.