All That Matters Part 3

THE NEWSPAPER MAN

Bit of a priest and a bit of sailor, Bit of a doctor and bit of a tailor, Bit of a lawyer, and bit of detective, Bit of a judge, for his work is corrective; Cheering the living and soothing the dying, Risking all things, even dare-devil flying; True to his paper and true to his clan-- Just look him over, the newspaper man.

Sleep! There are times that he'll do with a little, Work till his nerves and his temper are brittle; Fire cannot daunt him, nor long hours disturb him, Gold cannot buy him and threats cannot curb him; Highbrow or lowbrow, your own speech he'll hand you, Talk as you will to him, he'll understand you; He'll go wherever another man can-- That is the way of the newspaper man.

Surgeon, if urgent the need be, you'll find him, Ready to help, nor will dizziness blind him; He'll give the ether and never once falter, Say the last rites like a priest at the altar; Gentle and kind with the weak and the weary, Which is proved now and then when his keen eye grows teary; Facing all things in life's curious plan-- That is the way of the newspaper man.

One night a week may he rest from his labor, One night at home to be father and neighbor; Just a few hours for his own bit of leisure, All the rest's gazing at other men's pleasure, All the rest's toiling, and yet he rejoices, All the world is, and that men do, he voices-- Who knows a calling more glorious than The day-by-day work of the newspaper man?

A BOY AND HIS DAD

A boy and his dad on a fis.h.i.+ng-trip-- There is a glorious fellows.h.i.+p!

Father and son and the open sky And the white clouds lazily drifting by, And the laughing stream as it runs along With the clicking reel like a martial song, And the father teaching the youngster gay How to land a fish in the sportsman's way.

I fancy I hear them talking there In an open boat, and the speech is fair.

And the boy is learning the ways of men From the finest man in his youthful ken.

Kings, to the youngster, cannot compare With the gentle father who's with him there.

And the greatest mind of the human race Not for one minute could take his place.

Which is happier, man or boy?

The soul of the father is steeped in joy, For he's finding out, to his heart's delight, That his son is fit for the future fight.

He is learning the glorious depths of him, And the thoughts he thinks and his every whim; And he shall discover, when night comes on, How close he has grown to his little son.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _"A Boy And His Dad"_

_From a painting by_ M. L. BOWER.]

A boy and his dad on a fis.h.i.+ng-trip-- Builders of life's companions.h.i.+p!

Oh, I envy them, as I see them there Under the sky in the open air, For out of the old, old long-ago Come the summer days that I used to know, When I learned life's truths from my father's lips As I shared the joy of his fis.h.i.+ng-trips.

BREAD AND GRAVY

There's a heap o' satisfaction in a chunk o' pumpkin pie, An' I'm always glad I'm livin' when the cake is pa.s.sin' by; An' I guess at every meal-time I'm as happy as can be, For I like whatever dishes Mother gets for Bud an' me; But there's just one bit of eatin' which I hold supremely great, An' that's good old bread and gravy when I've finished up my plate.

I've eaten fancy dishes an' my mouth has watered, too; I've been at banquet tables an' I've run the good things through; I've had sea food up in Boston, I've had pompano down South, For most everything that's edible I've put into my mouth; But the finest treat I know of, now I publicly relate, Is a chunk of bread and gravy when I've finished up my plate.

Now the epicures may snicker and the hotel chefs may smile, But when it comes to eating I don't hunger much for style; For an empty man wants fillin' an' you can't do that with things Like breast o' guinea under gla.s.s, or curried turkey wings-- You want just plain home cookin' an' the chance to sit an' wait For a piece o' bread an' gravy when you've finished up your plate.

Oh, it may be I am common an' my tastes not much refined, But the meals which suit my fancy are the good old-fas.h.i.+oned kind, With the food right on the table an' the hungry kids about An' the mother an' the father handing all the good things out, An' the knowledge in their presence that I needn't fear to state, That I'd like some bread an' gravy when I've finished up my plate.

THE GRATE FIRE

I'm sorry for a fellow if he cannot look and see In a grate fire's friendly flaming all the joys which used to be.

If in quiet contemplation of a cheerful ruddy blaze He sees nothing there recalling all his happy yesterdays, Then his mind is dead to fancy and his life is bleak and bare, And he's doomed to walk the highways that are always thick with care.

When the logs are dry as tinder and they crackle with the heat, And the sparks, like merry children, come a-dancing round my feet, In the cold, long nights of autumn I can sit before the blaze And watch a panorama born of all my yesterdays.

I can leave the present burdens and that moment's bit of woe, And claim once more the gladness of the bygone long ago.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _"The Grate Fire"_

_From a drawing by_ W. T. BENDA.]

There are no absent faces in the grate fire's merry throng; No hands in death are folded, and no lips are stilled to song.

All the friends who were are living--like the sparks that fly about; They come romping out to greet me with the same old merry shout, Till it seems to me I'm playing once again on boyhood's stage, Where there's no such thing as sorrow and there's no such thing as age.

I can be the care-free schoolboy! I can play the lover, too!

I can walk through Maytime orchards with the old sweetheart I knew; I can dream the glad dreams over, greet the old familiar friends In a land where there's no parting and the laughter never ends.

All the gladness life has given from a grate fire I reclaim, And I'm sorry for the fellow who can only see the flame.

THE KINDLY NEIGHBOR

I have a kindly neighbor, one who stands Beside my gate and chats with me awhile, Gives me the glory of his radiant smile And comes at times to help with willing hands.

No station high or rank this man commands, He, too, must trudge, as I, the long day's mile; And yet, devoid of pomp or gaudy style, He has a worth exceeding stocks or lands.

To him I go when sorrow's at my door, On him I lean when burdens come my way, Together oft we talk our trials o'er And there is warmth in each good-night we say.

A kindly neighbor! Wars and strife shall end When man has made the man next door his friend.

THE TEARS EXPRESSIVE

Death crossed his threshold yesterday And left the glad voice of his loved one dumb.

To him the living now will come And cross his threshold in the self-same way To clasp his hand and vainly try to say Words that shall soothe the heart that's stricken numb.

And I shall be among them in that place So still and silent, where she used to sing-- The glad, sweet spirit that has taken wing-- Where shone the radiance of her lovely face, And where she met him oft with fond embrace, I shall step in to share his sorrowing.

Beside the staircase that has known her hand And in the hall her presence made complete, The home her life endowed with memories sweet Where everything has heard her sweet command And seems to wear her beauty, I shall stand Wondering just how to greet him when we meet.

I dread the very silence of the place, I dread our meeting and the time to speak-- Speech seems so vain when sorrow's at the peak!