The Path to Home Part 10

When Mother Made An Angel Cake

When mother baked an angel cake we kids would gather round An' watch her gentle hands at work, an' never make a sound; We'd watch her stir the eggs an' flour an' powdered sugar, too, An' pour it in the crinkled tin, an' then when it was through She'd spread the icing over it, an' we knew very soon That one would get the plate to lick, an' one would get the spoon.

It seemed no matter where we were those mornings at our play, Upstairs or out of doors somewhere, we all knew right away When Ma was in the kitchen, an' was gettin' out the tin An' things to make an angel cake, an' so we scampered in.

An' Ma would smile at us an' say: "Now you keep still an' wait An' when I'm through I'll let you lick the spoon an' icing plate."

We watched her kneel beside the stove, an' put her arm so white Inside the oven just to find if it was heatin' right.

An' mouths an' eyes were open then, becoz we always knew The time for us to get our taste was quickly comin' due.

Then while she mixed the icing up, she'd hum a simple tune, An' one of us would bar the plate, an' one would bar the spoon.

Could we catch a glimpse of Heaven, and some snow-white kitchen there, I'm sure that we'd see mother, smiling now, and still as fair; And I know that gathered round her we should see an angel brood That is watching every movement as she makes an angel food; For I know that little angels, as we used to do, await The moment when she lets them lick the icing spoon and plate.

The Gift of Play

Some have the gift of song and some possess the gift of silver speech, Some have the gift of leadership and some the ways of life can teach.

And fame and wealth reward their friends; in jewels are their splendors told, But in good time their favorites grow very faint and gray and old.

But there are men who laugh at time and hold the cruel years at bay; They romp through life forever young because they have the gift of play.

They walk with children, hand in hand, through daisy fields and orchards fair, Nor all the dignity of age and power and pomp can follow there; They've kept the magic charm of youth beneath the wrinkled robe of Time, And there's no friendly apple tree that they have grown too old to climb.

They have not let their boyhood die; they can be children for the day; They have not bartered for success and all its praise, the gift of play.

They think and talk in terms of youth; with love of life their eyes are bright; No rheumatism of the soul has robbed them of the world's delight; They laugh and sing their way along and join in pleasures when they can, And in their glad philosophy they hold that mirth becomes a man.

They spend no strength in growing old. What if their brows be crowned with gray?

The spirits in their b.r.e.a.s.t.s are young. They still possess the gift of play.

The richest men of life are not the ones who rise to wealth and fame-- Not the great sages, old and wise, and grave of face and bent of frame, But the glad spirits, tall and straight, who 'spite of time and all its care, Have kept the power to laugh and sing and in youth's fellowship to share.

They that can walk with boys and be a boy among them, blithe and gay, Defy the withering blasts of Age because they have the gift of play.

Toys and Life

You can learn a lot from boys By the way they use their toys; Some are selfish in their care, Never very glad to share Playthings with another boy; Seem to want to h.o.a.rd their joy.

And they hide away the drum For the days that never come; Hide the train of cars and skates, Keeping them from all their mates, And run all their boyhood through With their toys as good as new.

Others gladly give and lend, Heedless that the tin may bend, Caring not that drum-heads break, Minding not that playmates take To themselves the joy that lies In the little birthday prize.

And in homes that house such boys Always there are broken toys, Symbolizing moments glad That the youthful lives have had.

There you'll never find a shelf Dedicated unto self.

Toys are made for children's fun, Very frail and quickly done, And who keeps them long to view, Bright of paint and good as new, Robs himself and other boys Of their swiftly pa.s.sing joys.

So he looked upon a toy When our soldier was a boy; And somehow to-day we're glad That the tokens of our lad And the trinkets that we keep Are a broken, battered heap.

Life itself is but a toy Filled with duty and with joy; Not too closely should we guard Our brief time from being scarred; Never high on musty shelves Should we h.o.a.rd it for ourselves.

It is something we should share In another's hour of care-- Something we should gladly give That another here may live; We should never live it through Keeping it as good as new.

Being Dad on Christmas Eve

They've hung their stockings up with care, And I am in my old arm chair, And mother's busy dragging out The parcels hidden all about.

Within a corner, gaunt to see, There stands a barren Christmas tree, But soon upon its branches green A burst of splendor will be seen.

And when the busy tongues grow still, That now are wagging with a will Above me as I sit and rest, I shall be at my happiest.

The greatest joy man can receive Is being Dad on Christmas eve.

Soon I shall toil with tinsel bright; Place here and there a colored light, And wheresoe'er my fingers lie To-morrow shall a youngster spy Some wonder gift or magic toy, To fill his little soul with joy.

The stockings on the mantle piece I'll bulge with sweets, till every crease That marks them now is stretched away.

There will be horns and drums to play And dolls to love. For it's my task To get for them the joys they ask.

What greater charm can fortune weave Than being Dad on Christmas eve?

With all their pomp, great monarchs miss The happiness of scenes like this.

Rich halls to-night are still and sad, Because no little girl or lad Shall wake upon the morn to find The joys that love has left behind.

Oh, I have had my share of woe-- Known what it is to bear a blow-- Shed sorrow's tears and stood to care When life seemed desolate and bare, Yet here to-night I smile and say Worth while was all that came my way.

For this one joy, all else I'd leave: To be their Dad on Christmas eve.

Little Girls

G.o.d made the little boys for fun, for rough and tumble times of play; He made their little legs to run and race and scamper through the day.

He made them strong for climbing trees, he suited them for horns and drums, And filled them full of revelries so they could be their father's chums.

But then He saw that gentle ways must also travel from above.

And so, through all our troubled days He sent us little girls to love.

He knew that earth would never do, unless a bit of Heaven it had.

Men needed eyes divinely blue to toil by day and still be glad.

A world where only men and boys made merry would in time grow stale, And so He shared His Heavenly joys that faith in Him should never fail.

He sent us down a thousand charms, He decked our ways with golden curls And laughing eyes and dimpled arms. He let us have His little girls.

They are the tenderest of His flowers, the little angels of His flock, And we may keep and call them ours, until G.o.d's messenger shall knock.

They bring to us the gentleness and beauty that we sorely need; They soothe us with each fond caress and strengthen us for every deed.

And happy should that mortal be whom G.o.d has trusted, through the years, To guard a little girl and see that she is kept from pain and tears.

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