A Heap O' Livin Part 4

I used to think I loved each shelf And room for what it was itself.

And once I thought each picture fine Because I proudly called it mine.

But now I know they mean no more Than art works hanging in a store.

Until they went away to roam I never knew what made it home.

But I have learned that all is base, However wonderful the place And decked with costly treasures, rare, Unless the living joys are there.

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AT BREAKFAST TIME

My Pa he eats his breakfast in a funny sort of way: We hardly ever see him at the first meal of the day.

Ma puts his food before him and he settles in his place An' then he props the paper up and we can't see his face; We hear him blow his coffee and we hear him chew his toast, But it's for the morning paper that he seems to care the most.

Ma says that little children mighty grateful ought to be To the folks that fixed the evening as the proper time for tea.

She says if meals were only served to people once a day, An' that was in the morning just before Pa goes away, We'd never know how father looked when he was in his place, Coz he'd always have the morning paper stuck before his face.

He drinks his coffee steamin' hot, an' pa.s.ses Ma his cup To have it filled a second time, an' never once looks up.

He never has a word to say, but just sits there an' reads, An' when she sees his hand stuck out Ma gives him what he needs.

She guesses what it is he wants, coz it's no use to ask: Pa's got to read his paper an' sometimes that's quite a task.

One morning we had breakfast an' his features we could see, But his face was long an' solemn an' he didn't speak to me, An' we couldn't get him laughin' an' we couldn't make him smile, An' he said the toast was soggy an' the coffee simply vile.

Then Ma said: "What's the matter? Why are you so cross an' glum?"

An' Pa 'most took her head off coz the paper didn't come.

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CAN'T

_Can't_ is the worst word that's written or spoken; Doing more harm here than slander and lies; On it is many a strong spirit broken, And with it many a good purpose dies.

It springs from the lips of the thoughtless each morning And robs us of courage we need through the day: It rings in our ears like a timely-sent warning And laughs when we falter and fall by the way.

_Can't_ is the father of feeble endeavor, The parent of terror and half-hearted work; It weakens the efforts of artisans clever, And makes of the toiler an indolent shirk.

It poisons the soul of the man with a vision, It stifles in infancy many a plan; It greets honest toiling with open derision And mocks at the hopes and the dreams of a man.

_Can't_ is a word none should speak without blushing; To utter it should be a symbol of shame; Ambition and courage it daily is crushing; It blights a man's purpose and shortens his aim.

Despise it with all of your hatred of error; Refuse it the lodgment it seeks in your brain; Arm against it as a creature of terror, And all that you dream of you some day shall gain.

_Can't_ is the word that is foe to ambition, An enemy ambushed to shatter your will; Its prey is forever the man with a mission And bows but to courage and patience and skill.

Hate it, with hatred that's deep and undying, For once it is welcomed 'twill break any man; Whatever the goal you are seeking, keep trying And answer this demon by saying: "I _can_."

{54}

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

_Written July 22, 1916, when the world lost its "Poet of Childhood."_

There must be great rejoicin' on the Golden Sh.o.r.e to-day, An' the big an' little angels must be feelin'

mighty gay: Could we look beyond the curtain now I fancy we should see Old Aunt Mary waitin', smilin', for the coming that's to be, An' Little Orphant Annie an' the whole excited pack Dancin' up an' down an' shoutin': "Mr. Riley's comin' back!"

There's a heap o' real sadness in this good old world to-day; There are lumpy throats this morning now that Riley's gone away; There's a voice now stilled forever that in sweetness only spoke An' whispered words of courage with a faith that never broke.

There is much of joy and laughter that we mortals here will lack, But the angels must be happy now that Riley's comin' back.

The world was gettin' dreary, there was too much sigh an' frown In this vale o' mortal strivin', so G.o.d sent Jim Riley down, An' He said: "Go there an' cheer 'em in your good old-fashioned way, With your songs of tender sweetness, but don't make your plans to stay, Coz you're needed up in Heaven. I am lendin'

you to men Just to help 'em with your music, but I'll want you back again."

An' Riley came, an' mortals heard the music of his voice An' they caught his songs o' beauty an' they started to rejoice; An' they leaned on him in sorrow, an' they shared with him their joys, An' they walked with him the pathways that they knew when they were boys.

But the heavenly angels missed him, missed his tender, gentle knack Of makin' people happy, an' they wanted Riley back.

There must be great rejoicin' on the streets of Heaven to-day An' all the angel children must be troopin'

down the way, Singin' heavenly songs of welcome an' preparin'

now to greet The soul that G.o.d had tinctured with an ever-lasting sweet; The world is robed in sadness an' is draped in sombre black; But joy must reign in Heaven now that Riley's comin' back.

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RESULTS AND ROSES

The man who wants a garden fair, Or small or very big, With flowers growing here and there, Must bend his back and dig.

The things are mighty few on earth That wishes can attain.

Whate'er we want of any worth We've got to work to gain.

It matters not what goal you seek Its secret here reposes: You've got to dig from week to week To get Results or Roses.

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THE OTHER FELLOW

Are you fond of your wife and your children fair?

So is the other fellow.

Do you crave pleasures for them to share?

So does the other fellow.

Does your heart rejoice when your own are glad?

And are you troubled when they are sad?

Well, it's that way, too, in this life, my lad, That way with the other fellow.

Do you want the best for your own to know?

So does the other fellow.

Do you stoop to kiss them before you go?

So does the other fellow.

When your baby lies on a fevered bed, Does your heart run cold with a silent dread?

Well, it's that way, too, where all mortals tread-- That way with the other fellow.

Does it hurt when they want what you cannot buy?

It does with the other fellow.

Do you for their comfort yourself deny?

So does the other fellow.

Would you wail aloud if your babe should die For the lack of care you could not supply?

Well, it's that way, too, as he travels by, That way with the other fellow.