The Path to Home Part 4

The Unknown Friends

We cannot count our friends, nor say How many praise us day by day.

Each one of us has friends that he Has yet to meet and really know, Who guard him, wheresoe'er they be, From harm and slander's cruel blow.

They help to light our path with cheer, Although they pa.s.s as strangers here.

These friends, unseen, unheard, unknown, Our lasting grat.i.tude should own.

They serve us in a thousand ways Where we perhaps should friendless be; They tell our worth and speak our praise And for their service ask no fee; They choose to be our friends, although We have not learned to call them so.

We cannot guess how large the debt We owe to friends we have not met.

We only know, from day to day, That we discover here and there How one has tried to smooth our way, And ease our heavy load of care, Then pa.s.sed along and left behind His friendly gift for us to find.

First Name Friends

Though some may yearn for t.i.tles great, and seek the frills of fame, I do not care to have an extra handle to my name.

I am not hungry for the pomp of life's high dignities, I do not sigh to sit among the honored LL. D.'s.

I shall be satisfied if I can be unto the end, To those I know and live with here, a simple, first-name friend.

There's nothing like the comradeship which warms the lives of those Who make the glorious circle of the Jacks and Bills and Joes.

With all his majesty and power, Old Caesar never knew The joy of first-name fellowship, as all the Eddies do.

Let them who will be "mistered" here and raised above the rest; I hold a first-name greeting is by far the very best.

Acquaintance calls for dignity. You never really know The man on whom the terms of pomp you feel you must bestow.

Professor William Joseph Wise may be your friend, but still You are not certain of the fact till you can call him Bill.

But hearts grow warm and lips grow kind, and all the shamming ends, When you are in the company of good old first-name friends.

The happiest men on earth are not the men of highest rank; That joy belongs to George, and Jim, to Henry and to Frank; With them the prejudice of race and creed and wealth depart, And men are one in fellowship and always light of heart.

So I would live and laugh and love until my sun descends, And share the joyous comradeship of honest first-name friends.

The Furnace Door

My father is a peaceful man; He tries in every way he can To live a life of gentleness And patience all the while.

He says that needless fretting's vain, That it's absurd to be profane, That nearly every wrong can be Adjusted with a smile.

Yet try no matter how he will, There's one thing that annoys him still, One thing that robs him of his calm And leaves him very sore; He cannot keep his self-control When with a shovel full of coal He misses where it's headed for, And hits the furnace door.

He measures with a careful eye The s.p.a.ce for which he's soon to try, Then grabs his trusty shovel up And loads it in the bin, Then turns and with a healthy lunge, That's two parts swing and two parts plunge, He lets go at the furnace fire, Convinced it will go in!

And then we hear a sudden smack, The cellar air turns blue and black; Above the rattle of the coal We hear his awful roar.

From dreadful language upward hissed We know that father's aim has missed, And that his shovel full of coal Went up against the door.

The minister was here one day For supper, and Pa went away To fix the furnace fire, and soon We heard that awful roar.

And through the furnace pipes there came Hot words that made Ma blush for shame.

"It strikes me," said the minister, "He hit the furnace door."

Ma turned away and hung her head; "I'm so ashamed," was all she said.

And then the minister replied: "Don't worry. I admit That when I hit the furnace door, And spill the coal upon the floor, I quite forget the cloth I wear And--er--swear a little bit."

Out Fishin'

A feller isn't thinkin' mean, Out fishin'; His thoughts are mostly good an' clean, Out fishin'.

He doesn't knock his fellow men, Or harbor any grudges then; A feller's at his finest when Out fishin'.

The rich are comrades to the poor, Out fishin'; All brothers of a common lure, Out fishin'.

The urchin with the pin an' string Can chum with millionaire an' king; Vain pride is a forgotten thing, Out fishin'.

A feller gits a chance to dream, Out fishin'; He learns the beauties of a stream, Out fishin'; An' he can wash his soul in air That isn't foul with selfish care, An' relish plain and simple fare, Out fishin'.

A feller has no time fer hate, Out fishin'; He isn't eager to be great, Out fishin'.

He isn't thinkin' thoughts of pelf, Or goods stacked high upon a shelf, But he is always just himself, Out fishin'.

A feller's glad to be a friend, Out fishin'; A helpin' hand he'll always lend, Out fishin'.

The brotherhood of rod an' line An' sky and stream is always fine; Men come real close to G.o.d's design, Out fishin'.

A feller isn't plotting schemes, Out fishin'; He's only busy with his dreams, Out fishin'.

His livery is a coat of tan, His creed--to do the best he can; A feller's always mostly man, Out fishin'.

Selling the Old Home

The little house has grown too small, or rather we have grown Too big to dwell within the walls where all our joys were known.

And so, obedient to the wish of her we love so well, I have agreed for sordid gold the little home to sell.

Now strangers come to see the place, and secretly I sigh, And deep within my breast I hope that they'll refuse to buy.

"This bedroom's small," one woman said; up went her nose in scorn!

To me that is the splendid room where little Bud was born.

"The walls are sadly finger-marked," another stranger said.

A lump came rising in my throat; I felt my cheeks grow red.

"Yes, yes," I answered, "so they are. The fingermarks are free But I'd not leave them here if I could take them all with me."

"The stairway shows the signs of wear." I answered her in heat, "That's but the glorious sign to me of happy little feet.

Most anyone can have a flight of shiny stairs and new But those are steps where joy has raced, and love and laughter, too."

"This paper's ruined! Here are scrawled some pencil marks, I note."

I'd treasured them for years. They were the first he ever wrote.

Oh I suppose we'll sell the place; it's right that we should go; The children must have larger rooms in which to live and grow.