A Heap O' Livin Part 5

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OUR DUTY TO OUR FLAG

Less hate and greed Is what we need And more of service true; More men to love The flag above And keep it first in view.

Less boast and brag About the flag, More faith in what it means; More heads erect, More self-respect, Less talk of war machines.

The time to fight To keep it bright Is not along the way, Nor 'cross the foam, But here at home Within ourselves--to-day.

'Tis we must love That flag above With all our might and main; For from our hands, Not distant lands, Shall come dishonor's stain.

If that flag be Dishonored, we Have done it, not the foe; If it shall fall We first of all Shall be to strike a blow.

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THE HUNTER

Cheek that is tanned to the wind of the north.

Body that jests at the bite of the cold, Limbs that are eager and strong to go forth Into the wilds and the ways of the bold; Red blood that pulses and throbs in the veins, Ears that love silences better than noise; Strength of the forest and health of the plains; These the rewards that the hunter enjoys.

Forests were ever the cradles of men; Manhood is born of a kinship with trees.

Whence shall come brave hearts and stout muscles, when Woods have made way for our cities of ease?

Oh, do you wonder that stalwarts return Yearly to hark to the whispering oaks?

'Tis for the brave days of old that they yearn: These are the splendors the hunter invokes.

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IT'S SEPTEMBER

It's September, and the orchards are afire with red and gold, And the nights with dew are heavy, and the morning's sharp with cold; Now the garden's at its gayest with the salvia blazing red And the good old-fashioned asters laughing at us from their bed; Once again in shoes and stockings are the children's little feet, And the dog now does his snoozing on the bright side of the street.

It's September, and the cornstalks are as high as they will go, And the red cheeks of the apples everywhere begin to show; Now the supper's scarcely over ere the darkness settles down And the moon looms big and yellow at the edges of the town; Oh, it's good to see the children, when their little prayers are said, Duck beneath the patchwork covers when they tumble into bed.

It's September, and a calmness and a sweetness seem to fall Over everything that's living, just as though it hears the call Of Old Winter, trudging slowly, with his pack of ice and snow, In the distance over yonder, and it somehow seems as though Every tiny little blossom wants to look its very best When the frost shall bite its petals and it droops away to rest.

It's September! It's the fullness and the ripeness of the year; All the work of earth is finished, or the final tasks are near, But there is no doleful wailing; every living thing that grows, For the end that is approaching wears the finest garb it knows.

And I pray that I may proudly hold my head up high and smile When I come to my September in the golden afterwhile.

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HOW DO YOU TACKLE YOUR WORK?

How do you tackle your work each day?

Are you scared of the job you find?

Do you grapple the task that comes your way With a confident, easy mind?

Do you stand right up to the work ahead Or fearfully pause to view it?

Do you start to toil with a sense of dread Or feel that you're going to do it?

You can do as much as you think you can, But you'll never accomplish more; If you're afraid of yourself, young man, There's little for you in store.

For failure comes from the inside first, It's there if we only knew it, And you can win, though you face the worst, If you feel that you're going to do it.

Success! It's found in the soul of you, And not in the realm of luck!

The world will furnish the work to do, But you must provide the pluck.

You can do whatever you think you can, It's all in the way you view it.

It's all in the start that you make, young man: You must feel that you're going to do it.

How do you tackle your work each day?

With confidence clear, or dread?

What to yourself do you stop and say When a new task lies ahead?

What is the thought that is in your mind?

Is fear ever running through it?

If so, just tackle the next you find By thinking you're going to do it.

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LIFE

Life is a gift to be used every day, Not to be smothered and hidden away; It isn't a thing to be stored in the chest Where you gather your keepsakes and treasure your best; It isn't a joy to be sipped now and then And promptly put back in a dark place again.

Life is a gift that the humblest may boast of And one that the humblest may well make the most of.

Get out and live it each hour of the day, Wear it and use it as much as you may; Don't keep it in niches and corners and grooves, You'll find that in service its beauty improves.

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STORY TELLING

Most every night when they're in bed, And both their little prayers have said, They shout for me to come upstairs And tell them tales of gypsies bold, And eagles with the claws that hold A baby's weight, and fairy sprites That roam the woods on starry nights.

And I must ill.u.s.trate these tales, Must imitate the northern gales That toss the Indian's canoe, And show the way he paddles, too.

If in the story comes a bear, I have to pause and sniff the air And show the way he climbs the trees To steal the honey from the bees.

And then I buzz like angry bees And sting him on his nose and knees And howl in pain, till mother cries: "That pair will never shut their eyes, While all that noise up there you make; You're simply keeping them awake."

And then they whisper: "Just one more,"

And once again I'm forced to roar.

New stories every night they ask.

And that is not an easy task; I have to be so many things, The frog that croaks, the lark that sings, The cunning fox, the frightened hen; But just last night they stumped me, when They wanted me to twist and squirm And imitate an angle worm.

At last they tumble off to sleep, And softly from their room I creep And brush and comb the shock of hair I tossed about to be a bear.

Then mother says: "Well, I should say You're just as much a child as they."

But you can bet I'll not resign That story telling job of mine.

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CANNING TIME

There's a wondrous smell of spices In the kitchen, Most bewitchin'; There are fruits cut into slices That just set the palate itchin'; There's the sound of spoon on platter And the rattle and the clatter; And a bunch of kids are hastin'

To the splendid joy of tastin': It's the fragrant time of year When fruit-cannin' days are here.