All That Matters Part 1

All That Matters.

by Edgar A. Guest.

When all that matters shall be written down And the long record of our years is told, Where sham, like flesh, must perish and grow cold; When the tomb closes on our fair renown And priest and layman, sage and motleyed clown Must quit the places which they dearly hold, What to our credit shall we find enscrolled?

And what shall be the jewels of our crown?

I fancy we shall hear to our surprise Some little deeds of kindness, long forgot, Telling our glory, and the brave and wise Deeds which we boasted often, mentioned not.

G.o.d gave us life not just to buy and sell, And all that matters is to live it well.

UNTIL SHE DIED

Until she died we never knew The beauty of our faith in G.o.d.

We'd seen the summer roses nod And wither as the tempests blew, Through many a spring we'd lived to see The buds returning to the tree.

We had not felt the touch of woe; What cares had come, had lightly flown; Our burdens we had borne alone-- The need of G.o.d we did not know.

It seemed sufficient through the days To think and act in worldly ways.

And then she closed her eyes in sleep; She left us for a little while; No more our lives would know her smile.

And oh, the hurt of it went deep!

It seemed to us that we must fall Before the anguish of it all.

Our faith, which had not known the test, Then blossomed with its comfort sweet, Promised that some day we should meet And whispered to us: "He knows best."

And when our bitter tears were dried, We found our faith was glorified.

THE CALL

I must get out to the woods again, to the whispering tree, and the birds a-wing, Away from the haunts of pale-faced men, to the s.p.a.ces wide where strength is king; I must get out where the skies are blue and the air is clean and the rest is sweet, Out where there's never a task to do or a goal to reach or a foe to meet.

I must get out on the trails once more that wind through shadowy haunts and cool, Away from the presence of wall and door, and see myself in a crystal pool; I must get out with the silent things, where neither laughter nor hate is heard, Where malice never the humblest stings and no one is hurt by a spoken word.

Oh, I've heard the call of the tall white pine, and heard the call of the running brook; I'm tired of the tasks which each day are mine, I'm weary of reading a printed book; I want to get out of the din and strife, the clang and clamor of turning wheel, And walk for a day where life is life, and the joys are true and the pictures real.

MOTHER AND THE BABY

Mother and the baby! Oh, I know no lovelier pair, For all the dreams of all the world are hovering 'round them there; And be the baby in his cot or nestling in her arms, The picture they present is one with never-fading charms.

Mother and the baby--and the mother's eye aglow With joys that only mothers see and only mothers know!

And here is all there is to strife and all there is to fame, And all that men have struggled for since first a baby came.

I never see this lovely pair nor hear the mother sing The lullabies of babyhood, but I start wondering How much of every man to-day the world thinks wise or brave Is of the songs his mother sang and of the strength she gave.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _"Mother And The Baby"_

_From a drawing by_ W. T. BENDA.]

"Just like a mother!" Oh, to be so tender and so true, No man has reached so high a plane with all he's dared to do.

And yet, I think she understands, with every step she takes And every care that she bestows, it is the man she makes.

Mother and the baby! And in fancy I can see Her life being given gladly to the man that is to be, And from her strength and sacrifice and from her lullabies, She dreams and hopes and nightly prays a strong man shall arise.

OLD-FAs.h.i.+ONED LETTERS

Old-fas.h.i.+oned letters! How good they were!

And n.o.body writes them now; Never at all comes in the scrawl On the written pages which told us all The news of town and the folks we knew, And what they had done or were going to do.

It seems we've forgotten how To spend an hour with our pen in hand To write in the language we understand.

Old-fas.h.i.+oned letters we used to get And ponder each fond line o'er; The glad words rolled like running gold, As smoothly their tales of joy they told, And our hearts beat fast with a keen delight As we read the news they were pleased to write And gathered the love they bore.

But few of the letters that come to-day Are penned to us in the old-time way.

Old-fas.h.i.+oned letters that told us all The tales of the far away; Where they'd been and the folks they'd seen; And better than any fine magazine Was the writing too, for it bore the style Of a simple heart and a sunny smile, And was pure as the breath of May.

Some of them oft were damp with tears, But those were the letters that lived for years.

Old-fas.h.i.+oned letters! How good they were!

And, oh, how we watched the mails; But n.o.body writes of the quaint delights Of the sunny days and the merry nights Or tells us the things that we yearn to know-- That art pa.s.sed out with the long ago, And lost are the simple tales; Yet we all would happier be, I think, If we'd spend more time with our pen and ink.

G.o.d MADE THIS DAY FOR ME

Jes' the sort o' weather and jes' the sort o' sky Which seem to suit my fancy, with the white clouds driftin' by On a sea o' smooth blue water. Oh, I ain't an egotist, With an "I" in all my thinkin', but I'm willin' to insist That the Lord that made us humans an' the birds in every tree Knows my special sort o' weather an' He made this day fer me.

This is jes' my style o' weather--suns.h.i.+ne floodin' all the place, An' the breezes from the eastward blowin' gently on my face.

An' the woods chock-full o' singin' till you'd think birds never had A single care to fret 'em or a grief to make 'em sad.

Oh, I settle down contented in the shadow of a tree, An' tell myself right proudly that the day was made fer me.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _"G.o.d Made This Day For Me"_

_From a painting by_ M. L. BOWER.]

It's my day, sky an' suns.h.i.+ne, an' the temper o' the breeze.