A Heap O' Livin Part 9

Who guards his post, no matter where, Believing G.o.d must need him there, Although but lowly toil it be, Has risen to n.o.bility.

For great and low there's but one test: 'Tis that each man shall do his best.

Who works with all the strength he can Shall never die in debt to man.

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THE SULKERS

The world's too busy now to pause To listen to a whiner's cause; It has no time to stop and pet The sulker in a peevish fret, Who wails he'll neither work nor play Because things haven't gone his way.

The world keeps plodding right along And gives its favors right or wrong To all who have the grit to work Regardless of the fool or s.h.i.+rk.

The world says this to every man: "Go out and do the best you can."

The world's too busy to implore The beaten one to try once more; 'Twill help him if he wants to rise, And boost him if he bravely tries, And shows determination grim; But it won't stop to baby him.

The world is occupied with men Who fall but quickly rise again; But those who whine because they're hit And step aside to sulk a bit Are doomed some day to wake and find The world has left them far behind.

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PURPOSE

Not for the sake of the gold, Not for the sake of the fame, Not for the prize would I hold Any ambition or aim: I would be brave and be true Just for the good I can do.

I would be useful on earth, Serving some purpose or cause, Doing some labor of worth, Giving no thought to applause.

Thinking less of the gold or the fame Than the joy and the thrill of the game.

Medals their brightness may lose, Fame be forgotten or fade, Any reward we may choose Leaves the account still unpaid.

But little real happiness lies In fighting alone for a prize.

Give me the thrill of the task, The joy of the battle and strife, Of being of use, and I'll ask No greater reward from this life.

Better than fame or applause Is striving to further a cause.

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MOTHER'S GLa.s.sES

I've told about the times that Ma can't find her pocketbook, And how we have to hustle round for it to help her look, But there's another care we know that often comes our way, I guess it happens easily a dozen times a day.

It starts when first the postman through the door a letter pa.s.ses, And Ma says: "Goodness gracious me! Wherever are my gla.s.ses?"

We hunt 'em on the mantelpiece an' by the kitchen sink, Until Ma says: "Now, children, stop, an' give me time to think Just when it was I used 'em last an' just exactly where.

Yes, now I know--the dining room. I'm sure you'll find 'em there."

We even look behind the clock, we busy boys an' la.s.ses, Until somebody runs across Ma's missing pair of gla.s.ses.

We've found 'em in the Bible, an' we've found 'em in the flour, We've found 'em in the sugar bowl, an' once we looked an hour Before we came across 'em in the padding of her chair; An' many a time we've found 'em in the topknot of her hair.

It's a search that ruins order an' the home completely wrecks, For there's no place where you may not find poor Ma's elusive specs.

But we're mighty glad, I tell you, that the duty's ours to do, An' we hope to hunt those gla.s.ses till our time of life is through; It's a little bit of service that is joyous in its thrill, It's a task that calls us daily an' we hope it always will.

Rich or poor, the saddest mortals of all the joyless ma.s.ses Are the ones who have no mother dear to lose her reading gla.s.ses.

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THE PRINCESS PAT'S

_Written when the Canadian regiment known as the "Princess Pat's,"

left for the front._

A touch of the plain and the prairie, A bit of the Motherland, too; A strain of the fur-trapper wary, A blend of the old and the new; A bit of the pioneer splendor That opened the wilderness' flats, A touch of the home-lover, tender, You'll find in the boys they call Pat's.

The glory and grace of the maple, The strength that is born of the wheat, The pride of a stock that is staple, The bronze of a midsummer heat; A blending of wisdom and daring, The best of a new land, and that's The regiment gallantly bearing The neat little t.i.tle of Pat's.

A bit of the man who has neighbored With mountains and forests and streams, A touch of the man who has labored To model and fas.h.i.+on his dreams; The strength of an age of clean living, Of right-minded fatherly chats, The best that a land could be giving Is there in the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of the Pat's.

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BE A FRIEND

Be a friend. You don't need money; Just a disposition sunny; Just the wish to help another Get along some way or other; Just a kindly hand extended Out to one who's unbefriended; Just the will to give or lend, This will make you someone's friend.

Be a friend. You don't need glory.

Friends.h.i.+p is a simple story.

Pa.s.s by trifling errors blindly, Gaze on honest effort kindly, Cheer the youth who's bravely trying, Pity him who's sadly sighing; Just a little labor spend On the duties of a friend.

Be a friend. The pay is bigger (Though not written by a figure) Than is earned by people clever In what's merely self-endeavor.

You'll have friends instead of neighbors For the profits of your labors; You'll be richer in the end Than a prince, if you're a friend.

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THANKSGIVING

Thankful for the glory of the old Red, White and Blue, For the spirit of America that still is staunch and true, For the laughter of our children and the sunlight in their eyes, And the joy of radiant mothers and their evening lullabies; And thankful that our harvests wear no taint of blood to-day, But were sown and reaped by toilers who were light of heart and gay.

Thankful for the riches that are ours to claim and keep, The joy of honest labor and the boon of happy sleep, For each little family circle where there is no empty chair Save where G.o.d has sent the sorrow for the loving hearts to bear; And thankful for the loyal souls and brave hearts of the past Who builded that contentment should be with us to the last.

Thankful for the plenty that our peaceful land has blessed, For the rising sun that beckons every man to do his best, For the goal that lies before him and the promise when he sows That his hand shall reap the harvest, undisturbed by cruel foes; For the flaming torch of justice, symbolizing as it burns: Here none may rob the toiler of the prize he fairly earns.

To-day our thanks we're giving for the riches that are ours, For the red fruits of the orchards and the perfume of the flowers, For our homes with laughter ringing and our hearthfires blazing bright, For our land of peace and plenty and our land of truth and right; And we're thankful for the glory of the old Red, White and Blue, For the spirit of our fathers and a manhood that is true.

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MA AND HER CHECK BOOK

Ma has a dandy little book that's full of narrow slips, An' when she wants to pay a bill a page from it she rips; She just writes in the dollars and the cents and signs her name An' that's as good as money, though it doesn't look the same.

When she wants another bonnet or some feathers for her neck, She promptly goes an' gets 'em, an' she writes another check.

I don't just understand it, but I know she sputters when Pa says to her at supper: "Well! You're overdrawn again!"

Ma's not a business woman, she is much too kind of heart To squabble over pennies or to play a selfish part, An' when someone asks for money, she's not one to stop an' think Of a little piece of paper an' the cost of pen an' ink.

She just tells him very sweetly if he'll only wait a bit An' be seated in the parlor, she will write a check for it.

She can write one out for twenty just as easily as ten, An' forgets that Pa may grumble: "Well, you're overdrawn again!"