All That Matters Part 7

THE FAMILY DOCTOR

I've tried the high-toned specialists, who doctor folks to-day; I've heard the throat man whisper low "Come on now let us spray"; I've sat in fancy offices and waited long my turn, And paid for fifteen minutes what it took a week to earn; But while these scientific men are kindly, one and all, I miss the good old doctor that my mother used to call.

The old-time family doctor! Oh, I am sorry that he's gone, He ushered us into the world and knew us every one; He didn't have to ask a lot of questions, for he knew Our histories from birth and all the ailments we'd been through.

And though as children small we feared the medicines he'd send, The old-time family doctor grew to be our dearest friend.

No hour too late, no night too rough for him to heed our call; He knew exactly where to hang his coat up in the hall; He knew exactly where to go, which room upstairs to find The patient he'd been called to see, and saying: "Never mind, I'll run up there myself and see what's causing all the fuss."

It seems we grew to look and lean on him as one of us.

He had a big and kindly heart, a fine and tender way, And more than once I've wished that I could call him in to-day.

The specialists are clever men and busy men, I know, And haven't time to doctor as they did long years ago; But some day he may come again, the friend that we can call, The good old family doctor who will love us one and all.

DENIAL

I'd like to give 'em all they ask--it hurts to have to answer, "No,"

And say they cannot have the things they tell me they are wanting so; Yet now and then they plead for what I know would not be good to give Or what I can't afford to buy, and that's the hardest hour I live.

They little know or understand how happy I would be to grant Their every wish, yet there are times it isn't wise, or else I can't.

And sometimes, too, I can't explain the reason when they question why Their pleadings for some pa.s.sing joy it is my duty to deny.

I only know I'd like to see them smile forever on life's way; I would not have them shed one tear or ever meet a troubled day.

And I would be content with life and gladly face each dreary task, If I could always give to them the little treasures that they ask.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _"Denial"_

_From a painting by_ F. C. YOHN.]

Sometimes we pray to G.o.d above and ask for joys that are denied, And when He seems to scorn our plea, in bitterness we turn aside.

And yet the Father of us all, Who sees and knows just what is best, May wish, as often here we wish, that He could grant what we request.

THE WORKMAN'S DREAM

To-day it's dirt and dust and steam, To-morrow it will be the same, And through it all the soul must dream And try to play a manly game; Dirt, dust and steam and harsh commands, Yet many a soft hand pa.s.ses by And only thinks he understands The purpose of my task and why.

I've seen men shudder just to see Me standing at this lathe of mine, And knew somehow they pitied me, But I have never made a whine; For out of all this dirt and dust And clang and clamor day by day, Beyond toil's everlasting "must,"

I see my little ones at play.

The hissing steam would drive me mad If hissing steam was all I heard; But there's a boy who calls me dad Who daily keeps my courage spurred; And there's a little girl who waits Each night for all that I may bring, And I'm the guardian of their fates, Which makes this job a wholesome thing.

Beyond the dust and dirt and steam I see a college where he'll go; And when I shall fulfill my dream, More than his father he will know; And she shall be a woman fair, Fit for the world to love and trust-- I'll give my land a glorious pair Out of this place of dirt and dust.

THE HOMELY MAN

Looks as though a cyclone hit him-- Can't buy clothes that seem to fit him; An' his cheeks are rough like leather, Made for standin' any weather.

Outwards he wuz fashioned plainly, Loose o' joint an' blamed ungainly, But I'd give a lot if I'd Been prepared so fine inside.

Best thing I can tell you of him Is the way the children love him.

Now an' then I get to thinkin'

He is much like old Abe Lincoln-- Homely like a gargoyle graven, An' looks worse when he's unshaven; But I'd take his ugly phiz Jes' to have a heart like his.

I ain't over-sentimental, But old Blake is so blamed gentle An' so thoughtful-like of others He reminds us of our mothers.

Rough roads he is always smoothin', An' his way is, oh, so soothin'

That he takes away the sting When your heart is sorrowing.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _"The Homely Man"_

_From a painting by_ M. L. BOWER.]

Children gather round about him Like they can't get on without him.

An' the old depend upon him, Pilin' all their burdens on him, Like as though the thing that grieves 'em Has been lifted when he leaves 'em.

Homely? That can't be denied.

But he's glorious inside.

UNCHANGEABLE MOTHER

Mothers never change, I guess, In their tender thoughtfulness.

Makes no difference that you grow Up to forty years or so, Once you cough, you'll find that she Sees you as you used to be, An' she wants to tell to you All the things that you must do.

Just show symptoms of a cold, She'll forget that you've grown old.

Though there's silver in your hair, Still you need a mother's care, An' she'll ask you things like these: "You still wearing b. v. d.'s?

Summer days have long since gone, You should have your flannels on."

Grown and married an' maybe Father of a family, But to mother you are still Just her boy when you are ill; Just the lad that used to need Plasters made of mustard seed; An' she thinks she has to see That you get your flaxseed tea.

Mothers never change, I guess, In their tender thoughtfulness.

All her gentle long life through She is bent on nursing you; An' although you may be grown, She still claims you for her own, An' to her you'll always be Just a youngster at her knee.