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POEMS from the 








Class ' ^ w^'^' 


Poems from the North Woods 

Poems from the 
North Woods 

Log Cabin Philosophy 






Copyright, 1922 



OUT 12 '22 

My Beloved Wife 



Back To Nature i 

Hello, Spring 2 

Home 3 

The Blizzard 4 

Hello — Good-Bye 5 

Contentment 6 

Buck Up, Pal 7 

Gettin' Tired 8 

Thanksgiving 9 

Judgment 10 

Between 11 

Trailers 12 

Caution 13 

Wedding Anniversary 14 

Movin' To Town 15 

Livin' In Town 17 

We Must Leave Them Behind 19 

The Monitor 20 

Humble Prayer 21 

Side Trails 23 

The Lover's Plea 25 

Nature's Scales 26 

The Wanderer's Return 27 

Men Wanted 28 

Silent Grief 29 

To a Departed Friend 30 

Time 31 

Memories 32 

The Seasons 33 

When Arbutus Blooms Again 34 

Be Your Own Collector 35 

The Flowers To Give 36 


Hunter To His Hound 37 

Trailing Arbutus 38 

Look Ahead 39 

The Maverick 40 

How Much Are You Worth 41 

Jealousy 42 

Start Anew 43 

The Veil 44 

Bad Habits 45 

Little Merchants 46 

Just Being Good 48 

The Eagle's Nest 50 

Truth 51 

The Optimist . 52 

The Fountain of Youth 54 

Some Good In All 55 

Pansies 56 

The Imitators • 57 

Leaving Home 58 

Lucky Dog 59 

The Baby Show 60 

The Bluffer 61 

My Old Rag Doll 62 

The Nature Lover 63 

Silent Comforter 64 

The Way of the World 65 

The Mortgage 66 

Sawing Wood 67 

The Summons 68 

Honor 69 

My Old Clock 70 

Handicaps 71 

Even This 72 

Pay as You Go 73 

Tumble Weed 74 

Independence 75 

Santa 76 

Winners and Losers 77 

Home 78 

Wild Oats 79 

Just a Friendly Handshake 80 

Like Begets Like 81 

Most Wonderful of All 82 


Eulogy 83 

Always With You 84 

Boyhood Days 85 

My Dog 86 

The Old Home Town 87 

New Year's Resolutions 88 

Usefulness 89 

Failures 9° 

Nought But Love 91 

The Goad 9^ 

Satisfaction 93 

Weigh Your Words 94 

Seedtime and Harvest 95 

Censure 96 

Cast Your Bread 97 

Unafraid 98 

Trusting 99 

I'll Try 100 

Life's Drama loi 

The Tempter 102 

Missionaries 103 

Wake Your Soul 104 

Tides 105 

Heroes 106 

At the Top 107 

Information 108 

Love 109 

PosT-MoRTEM Friends no 

Prayer and Promise in 

Talents 112 

The Goal 113 

Bravery 114 

Asking and Giving 115 

Joys Abound 116 

Sleep 117 

Child of Nature 118 

I Can Try 119 

Duty , 120 

Mansions 121 

Safety First 122 

The Soldier 123 

Sunshine 124 

A Letter From My Baby 125 


Black Sheep 126 

He Will Come Again 128 

Level Best 129 

The Lumber Jack 130 

Dreams 132 

Your Vaults 133 

Advice 134 

In the Race 135 

The Old Mill 136 

The River of Life 137 

Mother 138 

'Tis Night 139 

"Old Doc" . 140 

'Tis Here 142 

Just Me 143 

Did You? 144 

To A Nurse 145 

Age 146 

Stick to Your Line 147 

Pledges 148 

Baby Love 149 

Autumn 150 

Supplication 152 

Just A Boy 153 

Superficial Clues 154 

Retrospection 156 

Sunshine and Shower 157 

My Looking Glass 158 

Friends 159 

Dyin' 160 

Worry 162 

Helen Barrett 163 

Fairy Tales 164 

Out of Reach 165 

Back to the Farm 166 

Anti-Antique 168 

Never Too Late 169 

Treasures 170 

Paradox But True 171 

The Laborer 172 

Old Fashioned 173 

Yesterdays 174 

Should I Awake 175 

Poems from the North Woods 


I love to dwell in forest wild, 

Where giant pine trees pierce the sky ; 
A beauty spot where Nature smiled, 

A fitting place to live and die ; 

Where lake-waves kiss the sandy beach, 
The native haunt of timid deer; 

A sermon only God can preach, 

But every Human Soul may hear. 

The book of Nature opened wide 

Each page some wondrous Joy unfolds 

To him, whose conscience is his guide, 
He learns the secrets Nature holds. 

I've played my part in Life's affairs, 
I'm weary of the noise and strife; 

So let me put aside my cares, 

And live the quiet, simple life. 



Hello, Spring! I've been a wishin' 

You'd be amblin' 'long this way; 
I'm jes itchin' to go fishin', 

Been a watchin' ev'ry day. 
Knowed you'd come along to cheer us 

Like you always used to do; 
Pitch yer tent an' camp right near us 

Fer we're mighty fond of you. 
Jes' lay off yer Easter bonnet, 

Make yerself at home right here. 
Whar's that fish-pole now, doggone it I 

That I put away las' year*? 
Never mind, I'll cut a Wilier; 

'Taint no time to fool around. 
Ketchin' trout is sure a thriller 

Fer a real ole' fishin' hound. 



I can see the lightning flashing, 
Feel the mighty thunder roar; 

Hear the beating rain a-splashing, 
Just outside my Cabin door. 

While, inside, is peace and gladness, 
Joy and love, and hope and cheer. 

For no worry, sin or sadness, 
Ever find their way in here. 

When at Home with those who love me. 
Sitting round the old fireside, 

I'm at peace with God above me. 
With my lot I'm satisfied. 

We're content to love each other, 
Keep the Golden Rule in mind; 

Treat each Neighbor as a Brother, 
Brings us happiness, I find; 

This is where I'm most contented. 
Here from sin I'm safe and free; 

Man has never yet invented 

Anything, like home, for me. 



Just howl, and blow, and pile the snow, 

And see how much I care! 
For thirty-five degrees below, 

Don't even bring a scare; 
Your chilly blast can only last 

A little while, and then 
Another Winter will have passed, 

And Spring will come again. 
So with trouble, it may double 

Our woe and grief awhile; 
Then burst, as does a tiny bubble, 

When we begin to smile. 



Life is like a Railway station, 

With its busy hustling throng; 
Full of life, and animation, 

Hope, and sorrow, tears and song; 
Some are waiting, watching, praying 

For some loved one to appear; 
Others, sad farewells are saying, 

To some Friend, who's leaving here: 
Some are coming, others going, — 

Some will laugh, while others cry; 
His emotion each is showing, 

Caused by Hello, or Good-bye. 



Tho' I'm poor, and meek, and humble, 
Workin' hard for daily bread; 

No one ever hears me grumble 
'Bout not bein' at the head. 

Thar's a lot of us poor sinners 
Doin' time here, for awhile. 

It ain't hard to pick the winners, 

They're the ones who work and smile: 

Workin' Six days out of Seven, 
Rest a day, then work again; 

They're the kind that's fit for Heaven, 
It was made for honest men. 

I can't see why some folks hurry, 
Jes' to get a lot of wealth. 

When they get it, then they worry 

'Cause it won't buy time, nor health. 

I'm content with past an' present, — 

Satisfied with everything; 
Glad to be a peaceful Peasant, 

Rather than a warring King. 



Never admit you are down and out, 

'Tho not a penny within your purse; 
Buck up, Old Pal, put the glooms to rout — 

Just smile and say, "Well, it might be worse. 
You're sure to win, if you strike your pace. 

Misfortune has blest, as well as cursed; 
A quitter can never win a race. 

So Buck up, Pal, you may come in First. 
Never say quit — that's the coward's dope; 

Fool the Sexton, and kid the Nurse; 
Fan to a flame, the last spark of hope. 

You still have life, so "it might be worse." 
You're bound to win, I'm betting on you — 

'Tho you skidded back, you'll soon reverse; 
So Buck up Pal, see the whole game through, — 

Laurels for you, if you beat the hearse. 



Gettin' tired don't hurt a fellow, 

Rather does him lots of good. 
Never show a streak of yellow, 

Just because you're sawin' wood; 
Let the idlers do their gettin' 

Without sweatin' of the brow; 
Soon, or late, they'll do the frettin' 

That you feel you're doin' now. 
Loafin' 'round, an' spendin' money, 

Ain't the makin' of a man — 
Hummin' Birds that live on honey, 

Missin' out on Nature's plan. 
Daily bread, by sweat of labor. 

Makes the man that's worth the while. 
As a Brother, Friend, or Neighbor, 

They're the ones that's most in style; 
Tackle duty with a dead-lock. 

Never loosen on your hold; 
For the man who works to bedrock, 

Always finds the purest gold. 


Deer a-jumping, Hearts a-thumping, Hiding 
Back Among the Pine 


Winds a-shifting, snow a-drifting, 

Pine boughs bending to the ground; 

Ice a-snapping, Summer's napping 
'Til the Springtime comes around. 

Winter's pleasure has no measure, 

Hunting's good, and trapping's fine; 

Deer a-jumping, hearts a-thumping. 
Hiding back among the pine. 

Ven'son baking, no mistaking — 
Smell it thru the Cabin door — 

Just the living — for Thanksgiving, 
King, or Queen, could ask no more. 



Be careful how you criticise, 

Your Judgment may be weak; 
The wisdom of a critic lies 

In knowing how to speak. 
When passing Judgment, use great care, 

Lest prejudice outweigh 
The evidence, that's brought to bear. 

And your decision sway. 
Be great, and fair enough to see 

The good, in every man; 
And let your comment ever be 

As generous, as you can. 
Be never hasty to condemn 

On gossips' evidence; 
But rather show contempt for them 

By using common sense. 


'Tho wrinkles mar sweet beauty's page, 
It may not be because of age; 
Just read between the lines, and you 
May find some other lingering clue; 
For, often in the saddest face, 
A tender smile has left a trace; 
Don't judge alone, by surface clues. 
For if you do, you're apt to lose; 
Perhaps a friend may pass you by, 
May fail to speak, or raise an eye, 
Don't judge by that he is unkind. 
Perhaps there's worry on his mind; 
Be slow to pass on outward looks, 
They're only covers, on the books; 
Oh, what a pleasure it would bring, 
Could we find good in everything. 



Ain't it queer, when you're a sailin' 
Down some easy-goin' road, 

Thar is always someone trailin' 
Ther ol' pack behin' yer load? 

'Taint so bad, when roads an' weather 
Both are good, an' goin's fine; 

If they'd only pull together, 

Thru the rough spots on the line, 

Git right off, an' help a feller, 

While he makes some heavy grade, 

'Sted of showin' streaks of yeller, 
Jumpin' off, an' huntin' shade. 

This ol' World is full of Hikers, 
Who are watchin' fer a ride; 

Some are honest, some are Pikers, 
Who are driftin' with the tide. 

Trouble is, yer never certain 

Jes' which kind yer takin' on; 

'Til it calls fer some exertin'. 

Then you'll find the Piker's gone. 

Oh, 'tis nice to help another. 

Who's a trudgin' 'long life's trail. 

If he'll help you like a brother. 

When your strength begins to fail. 



Be careful what you tell your pen 
When writing to a friend; 

A little error, now and then, 
Might possibly offend. 

A message never sounds the same 
As you would talk, or think — 

A slight mistake, and then the blame 
Is on the pen and ink. 

The little pen, a servant meek. 
Puts down in black and white. 

The good or bad which you would speak; 
Be careful what you write. 

It is not always what you say. 
But how 'tis said, you know; 

That makes the reader sad or gay. 
And makes a friend or foe. 

So never write when in a mood 
Which would not carry cheer; 

Lest you might be misunderstood 
By one you hold most dear. 



One Score and Seven years, Dear Wife, 
Side by side, we've worked together; 

We've had our ups and downs in life, 
Sunshine, and stormy weather. 

We've had our pleasures and our pain, 
Our joys and sorrows plenty; 

But I would live them o'er again — 
Those Seven years and Twenty. 

I know you better, love you more, 
Each precious year that passes by; 

So let old Time run up his score. 

We'll smile together, you and I; 

We've passed thru hardships, not a few, 
Because we did not understand; 

And thru it all you've proven true, — 
Content we travel hand in hand. 

Now, as we hurry down the slope, 
Where one must go, the other stay. 

Let's smile, and love, and trust, and hope 
We'll meet again, somewhere, some day, 



Come on Ma, the farm is rented, 
An' we're about to move to town; 

Hope we all may be contented. 

When we get moved an' settled down. 

We've worked hard an' kept together, 
Managed to live an' save a bit, 

'Gainst a spell of rainy weather, 
There's sure to be enough of it. 

Hate to sell the cows an' ponies, 
Every one a pet you know; 

Me an' them was reg'lar cronies. 

Most breaks my heart to see 'em go. 

Hate to leave each dear old neighbor — 
Know ev'ry one fer miles aroun' — 

Hate to lay down cares an' labor, 
Fer my part I don't care fer town. 

But them kids must have some learnin', 

So's to fit 'em fer real life; 
Plowin', plantin', milkin', churnin'. 

Aint the things they want, dear wife. 


They want college education, 

With art an' science an' all such, 

Seems to me such combination, 

Can't ever 'mount to very much. 

But I reckon how some school in' 
Couldn't do 'em nary a harm, 

So we may as well quit foolin' 
Tryin' to keep 'em on the farm. 

They are all we have to live fer; 

I wouldn't slight 'em if I could, 
Ev'ry cent I've got, I'd give fer 

Things to keep 'em pure an' good. 

Come on mother, quit yer cryin'. 

Let's bid the old homestead good-bye. 

See them kids, how they are tryin' 
To hide, so we can't see 'em cry. 

Aint a bit of sense in squallin', 
It never brings you no relief; 

Say, b'gosh, I b'lieve I'm bawlin'. 
Ma, let me take your han'kerchief. 



Well, here we are in town at last, 

An' keepin' house again. 
The kids in school an' learnin' fast, 

Tom, Bill an' Mary Jane. 

Our place is out on Water street. 
The last one on the right; 

A bran' new house an' all complete. 
Steam heat an' 'lectric light. • 

Our house has seven rooms in all. 
That means up-stairs an' down, 

Includin' the "reception hall," 
They call 'em here in town. 

We bought an acre an' a half. 

To have a garden spot; 
We've got two pigs, a cow an' calf, 

An' chickens that Ma bro't. 

I figger we can almost make 

Our livin' on this place. 
Unless them kids of our'n should take 

A little faster pace. 



They never had much chance to go, 
When we lived on the farm; 

To them, the town is one big show, 
All full of life and charm. 

Teachers say "They're doin' fine," 
Which pleases Ma and me; 

The boys have j'ined a baseball nine, 
The best I ever see. 

Our Mary Jane takes music an' 

A lot of other things, 
Which Ma and me don't understan'. 

No more than when she sings. 

It does us good to see 'em dressed 
All up like kings and queens; 

It cost a bit to find out jest 
What education means. 

I like the town, but I'll be durned 

I like the old farm best; 
But we are gettin' what we've earned. 

Some learnin' an' a rest. 


I ponder, and marvel, at Nature's great plan, 
The vast panorama she spreads before man; 
A World filled with beauty, of every kind — 
Man views them awhile, but must leave them behind. 

There are some who forget, while passing along. 
That avarice and greed are essentially wrong. 
They may covet, or claim, the treasures they find, 
May use them awhile, but must leave them behind. 

So, enjoy the beauties of Nature, each day; 

For you, like all others, must soon pass away; 

The things we have loved, and our hearts have entwined, 

Are snatched from our grasp; we must leave them behind. 

The beautiful things, which today we behold. 
Keep their beauty forever, they never grow old; 
The eyes which now see them, shall some day be blind. 
They'll see them no more, they must leave them behind. 

The pleasures of life, which now hold us so fast. 
Will greet those who follow, when we shall have passed 
While Life, Death, and the Soul, three words undefined— 
Shall mystify those, we are leaving behind. 



If you would get the best in life, and have of cares but few, 
Just listen to your Conscience; It will tell you what to do. 
This little indicator points the way you ought to go. 
And should you think of doing wrong, 'twill always whis- 
per "No." 
Twill point out all the dangers that lurk at every turn, 
And warn you of temptations, which the winner has to 

It shows you how you failed before, and points a better way, 
It tells you what is best to do, and what is best to say; 
Consult this little Monitor, the safeguard to your Soul, 
Trust everything to Conscience, and give it full control. 
Regard it every moment, let it rule your every act. 
And you'll have nothing to regret, nor words you would 



Now an' then I have a feelin' 

That I'd like to try an' pray; 
But when I get down to kneelin', 

I don't know just what to say; 
I can't put the words together 

Like a preacher sayin' grace, 
And in fact, I don't know whether 

They'd exactly fit my case. 
I have never had much learnin' 

'Bout the words that's most in style, 
But, inside, I have a yearnin' 

Fer to talk with God a while; 
Seems I hadn't ought to bother 

Him, with such a homely plea. 
But I know he is my Father, 

An' he knows how meek I be ; 
So I tell him all my troubles, 

Jes' like I would talk to you — 
An' my Spirit fairly bubbles 

With a joy I'd never knew. 
Then I know that he's been hearin' 

Every word I had to say ; 
For the things I'd been a fearin'. 

In a moment pass away. 


An' my heart feels so much lighter, — 

Filled with hope, instead of care; 
An' the path ahead seems brighter, 

When I've said my little prayer. 
So I reckon God ain't countin' 

On fine prayers, to judge us by, — 
Fer, sometimes the roughest Mountain, 

Reaches farthest toward the sky. 





As we travel down life's highways, 

We're bewildered now and then 
By the side trails, and the byways. 

Which have been laid out by men ; 
Some are narrow, lacking beauty, 

Where the faithful few have trod, 
These are called the paths of duty, — 

Thoroughfares, laid out by God. 
Other paths, in countless number. 

Have the lure of wealth and ease. 
Where the rich may feast and slumber, 

But little good is found in these ; 
They're the ones most often crowded 

By the selfish, proud and weak. 
Whose Eternal hope is clouded ; 

'Tis the pleasures here they seek; 
There are roads which lead to sorrow, 

There are paths which lead to fame; 
There'll be new paths made tomorrow, — 

Leading on to joy or shame. 
There are trails at ev'ry angle, 

Where they cross, and weave, and wind — 
Like a spider's web, a-tangle, — 

'Til they most confuse the mind ; 


I have often stopped and pondered, 

When I've almost lost my way, 
As on some side-trail I'd wandered, 

Just to spend a pleasant day ; 
Do these trails all come together, 

At some terminal or bend *? 
And again, I wonder whether 

We'll be happy at the end? 




Oh, "Love me, little, love me long," 
Was only meant to rhyme in song ; 
I could not give you just a part — 
But all, the love of my whole heart. 
The love my soul pours out to you. 
Is pure, and fresh as morning dew ; 
Tho strong, 'tis tender as a flower. 
You have its keeping in your power ; 
So guard this Sacred trust with care, 
And take it with you everywhere ; 
Twill not grow less, as years go by. 
It is eternal, cannot die ; 
But lest this treasure go astray. 
Be watchful of it every day ; 
Twill grow, and bud, and blossom too, 
And bear the choicest fruit for you ; 
It wandered far, but found its goal — 
Your heart; the throne-seat of the Soul. 
Now all I ask you in return. 
Is vour whole love, for which I yearn. 




You cannot cheat on Nature's scales, 

They weigh exactly true; 
On purchases, as well as sales, 

They'll weigh the same for you. 

Don't think of cheating when you sell. 
The weight must be exact ; 

The dial on the scales, will tell 
Of anything held back. 

The scales which you use in selling, 
Are used when you must buy ; 

Honest dealing thus compelling. 
Discouraging a lie. 


Seems good to get back, to home, friends and neighbors, 

Where once I knew only the pure and the good, 
And shared in their joys, their sorrow and labor, 

And bore their respect as an honest man should. 
Yes, those were the days when quality counted. 

When Honor was reckoned more precious than Gold ; 
Dollars and cents to but little amounted — 

And nobody suffered from hunger and cold ; 
The weak, and the aged, were never neglected. 

And man's word of honor meant something of worth. 
Purity, then, was the first thing protected, — 

Conditions which surely should compass the earth. 
Such was the place that I tired of, deserted; 

Went out to win fortune and fame, as I thought. 
Now I've returned, and am fully converted 

The Old Home is best; and I'll here cast my lot. 
Out in the world, all is noise and confusion, — 

Where selfishness reigns in the scramble for gold. 
Many a promise proves only delusion. 

And many a heart that is bitter and cold. 
Glad to get back — I was homesick and weary — 

I have longed to hear the word "Welcome" again ; 
Makes this Old World seem a whole lot more cheery, — 

Seems just like the sunshine, right after the rain. 




We need the man of spine, today, 

To boldly take the floor ; 
And without hesitation, say 

Things, which make rascals sore. 

The kind who never climbs a fence 

When issues are at stake; 
The man with good old common sense,— 

Whose brain is wide awake. 

The one who speaks just what he thinks, 

As only thinkers can; 
Not one who only sits and winks, 

For "policy's" his plan. 

Of such as he, there's not a few. 

Nor need for any more ; 
Get off the fence, if this means you, 

A coward is a "bore." 

We need the man who has the nerve 
To choose what's right, then stick; 

The only kind that's fit to serve, 
Is one the thieves can't lick. 


You ask me why I do not cry, 

As others do, in sorrow's hour? 

E'en death's keen sting doth fail to bring 

The tears, which have such soothing power; 

I only know, I feel the woe, 

And pangs of sorrow deep at heart ; 

Tho dry mine eyes, within me lies 

The wound, which comes from sorrow's dart. 

The deepest woe, may never show 
Thru tears, and moans, its agony — 
The heart may ache, or even break, 
Yet hide its grief, that none may see. 




Farewell to thee, my Dear old Friend; 

I'll miss you while I stay, — 
And pray my blessings may attend 

Your Spirit, on its way. 

You cheered a little spot on Earth 
With smiles, and kindly speech; 

An honest man, of sterling worth, 
Who practiced what he'd preach. 

When you have reached the other shore. 

And new friendships begun, 
Should you recall Earth friends once more, 

Remember me as one. 

And when they call my Number here, 

I hope your face to see ; 
For where you go, I've nought to fear, 

'Tis good enough for me. 


Eternity no man can measure, 

All that's before and all that's past; 
But Time is ours, this priceless treasure, 

To use as long as life shall last ; 
Its smallest fraction man has reckoned, 

That he find some joy in it; 
Man's noblest thought, takes but a second, 

Birth, or Death, takes but a minute. 
Aye, Fame and Fortune, Wealth and Power, 

All transient joys, that pass away; 
May come, and go within an hour. 

Or Kings dethroned within a day. 
Time, precious Time, of this I'm certain, — 

It leads us to our destiny; 
Then gently draws aside the curtain. 

And ushers in Eternity. 




I well remember, dear old Jack, 

Our happy yesterdays; 
Your letters seem to take me back 

Thru years of misty haze. 

The swimming hole, and smugglers' cove. 
The tunnel near Birch Ford, 

Come back to me like shafts of Jove, 
From memory's treasure hoard. 

Those care-free days of long ago, 

Tho valued slightly then, 
Were such as grown-ups seldom know — 

They don't belong to men. 

But, say. Old Friend, 'tis mighty nice 

To just review the past; 
For pleasures now all have a price. 

Their memory will not last. 

Except the pleasures we revive 
Of boyhood's happy spring, — 

They are Immortal ; and outlive 
Old age, and everything. 



I love to watch the seasons change ; 

As Summer takes the throne from Spring, 
So wonderful sublime and strange, 

Each one its own sweet songs does sing. 

It seems each one, in turn, is best; 

Is gifted with some special grace; 
Yet Summer fades, as have the rest, 

And Autumn boldly takes its place. 

This of the Four I hold most dear. 
Would be content to have it stay; 

But Winter comes to close the year, 
And Autumn scenes must pass away. 

Just so our lives; our childhood days 

Are filled with joy, that's ne'er forgot; 

And he is wise who simply says, 

"I love them all," and murmurs not. 



There's a little Cabin home with pine surrounded, 

In the North-woods, where one day I chanced to roam 
Where all Nature wild and free with joys unbounded. 

Bade m.e welcome to that little Cabin home. 
Just a Cabin built of logs, out on a clearing, 

With "Arbutus" trailing o'er the grassy slope; 
There, a startled fawn at me was coyly peering, 

I saw her smile, and then began to hope. 
Tho I wander far, her face I always see; 

She was with me through the sunshine and the rain ; 
If she'll only say she feels the same toward me, 

I'll be with her, "when Arbutus blooms again." 

We will build a little Cabin in the wildwood. 

Where the giant pines cast shadows o'er the lawn; 
And our happiness shall be like that of childhood, 

Midst the pine trees, where I met my startled fawn. 
I will gladly leave the wanderlust behind me, — 

Just to bask within the sunshine of her smile. 
There would be a World of pleasure to remind me 

That my visit to the North-woods was worth while. 




Sure, "the world owes you a living" — 

And should pay you every day; 
You should never have misgiving, 

For she is the best of pay. 
'Tis a debt, which "nature" gave her. 

When the first man came on earth; 
From its payment, she'll not waver; 

You are hers, by right of birth. 
She will meet this obligation. 

Providing you respect her; 
When she makes this stipulation, 

Just be your own collector. 
Toil cannot, like a new-born bird. 

Sit in a feathery nest. 
And without effort, act, or word, 

Be entitled to the best, — 
'Tis nature's plan, that each must do 

His portion of life's great work; 
And for such service, she'll pay you — 

There's no "pay-day" for the "shirk." 



Don't wait until your friends are dead, 
Before you bring them flowers, 

Go pluck a pansy from its bed, 
And cheer their living hours. 

Don't wait until they've passed away, 
Then give them but a tear, 

But do, instead, something today. 
To cheer them while they're here. 

A pleasant word, or look, or smile. 
Will help them while they live. 

Just try it once, 'tis worth the while. 
These are the flowers to give. 

Just try today, to help, somehow. 
Some aching heart, and head; 

You'd better give them pansies now. 
Than orchids, when they're dead. 



Come, Old Pal, let us divvy our snack; 

Then turn our faces toward camp — 
We'll be worn and tired when we get back, 

We've a long hard trail yet to tramp; 
But we got the fox we started out 

To capture before we would quit. 
When signs are fresh, there's never a doubt, 

Their cunning your "nose" can outwit, 
I know every word you speak, Old Pard, 

Your barking is English to me ; 
It tells me when you're pressing them hard. 

Have brought them to bay, or up tree; 
Come share with me our last bit of bread, 

My friend who is worthy the name. 
A nice warm fur tonight for your bed, 

For you, too, are weary and lame; 
You never lie, my faithful Old Scout, 

On you I can always depend; 
I would be lonesome, tramping about 

Without you, my faithful old friend. 



First flow'r, to answer the call of Spring, 
Braving the frost and its icy sting; 
Beautiful flow'r, so full of cheer, 
Telling us softly that "Spring is here." 

Clad in raiment of beauty so rare, 
Your fragrant odor perfumes the air; 
Ahead of song-birds you always come, 
A Courier, to welcome them Home. 

Blossoming Season is short with you — 

And you're known as One of very few 

That through the Seasons, keep fresh and green ; 

So of all Wild Flow'rs, "I crown thee, Queen. 




Have no fear of what's behind you, 
Give no thought to yesterdays ; 

Only that they may remind you 
Of the error of your ways. 

Look ahead for every blessing, 

Greet them when they come along: 

Lookin' backward, is depressing, 
And will seldom right a wrong. 

Each new day is full of treasures. 
You can find them if you try ; 

Never pass up present pleasures — 
Grieving o'er the days gone by. 

Get some good from each new minute. 
Sort the best from every hour ; 

Sip the sweetness there is in it, 

As the bee does, from the flower. 

Live today, hope for tomorrow. 
Better days are just ahead; 

Don't awaken grief and sorrow. 
By recalling time that's dead. 



I'm only a maverick — without a brand — 

I've wandered away from the herd; 
Way out to the border of "no man's land," 

Where Man is as free as the Bird. 
The days full of sunshine, and nights of sweet rest, 

The Sun greets the World with a smile, 
Where Nature is clothed in her richest and best, 

And Art is forgotten the while. 
To live with the Birds, the Trees, and the Flowers, 

And know that they welcome me here. 
Brings sweet peace to my Soul, and brightens the hours 

Which pass like a fleet-footed deer; 
A thousand times better, this primitive life, 

Where greed and deceit are unknown. 
Than back with the herd, with its turmoil and strife. 

Where Brotherly love is unknown. 
Yes, I'm glad to be back, away from the Trail 

Where big herds go thundering past; 
Where God is forgotten, and greed does prevail — 

I'd rather not travel so fast. 




Supposing, today were your last day on earth, 
The last mile of the journey you've trod — 

After all your struggles, how much are you worths- 
How much can you take home to God I 

Don't count as possessions your silver and gold, 
For tomorrow you leave these behind; 

And all that is yours to have and to hold. 
Are the blessings you've given mankind. 

Just what have you done as you journeyed along, 
That was really and truly worth while *? 

Do you feel your good deeds would offset the wrong, 
Could you look o'er your life with a smile*? 

We are only supposing — but if it were real. 

And you invoiced your deeds since your birth. 

And you figured the profits you've made in life's deal. 
How much are you really worth? 



There's a little spark of jealousy in every human heart; 
This tiny, smouldering ember, bursts to flame, with sudden 

When we see "another" doing things which we have failed 

to do, 
Winning the plaudits of the world; we would like to do it 

It is right to honor genius, cheer the one who wins a race, 
Tho while doing so, we're jealous, and would like to take 

his place; 
We would not usurp the honors that another man has 

Nor withhold from him his medals, or ignore the things he's 

Tho we recognize his greatness, give him glory, honor, fame. 
There is something, seems to tell us that we could have done 

the same ; 
I consider this a blessing, for it spurs us on to try 
And do the things which bring applause, yet are noble, great, 

and high: 
It brings out many a talent, which was hidden in the dark. 
And gives glory, honor, fortune, fame — this little Jealous 




If you have a grouch, and things look blue, 
You think the "world" has it in for you. 
You're out of work, and the rent 'most due, 
Your chances of winning, seem but few, 
The chums you had, bade a sad adieu, 
Then went their way, for they were not true, 
Your last red cent from the bank you drew. 
And for provisions the same you blew, 
For getting more you haven't a clue; 
You worry and fret, and fuss and stew, 
And by your fretting, more troubles brew ; 
Your lucky star seems hidden from view, 
And old hard luck, sticks to you like glue. 
Boasted true-blue friends have lost their hue. 
Not one volunteers to help you through. 
And your last fond hope took wing and flew; 
There's but one thing left for you to do — 
Bury your troubles, and start anew. 



If we could see ahead a little way, 

And know what is in store for us tomorrow, 
Just peep behind the curtains of today. 

And get a glimpse of future joy or sorrow. 
Would we be able to forestall the bad, 

And in its stead have only the pure and good^ 
Or would that knowledge only make us sad, 

Now I wonder, as I ponder, if it would ^ 
Perhaps 'tis better that we cannot see 

Beyond the veil, which hides tomorrow's light. 
And living thus, in doubt, perhaps we'll be 

Much happier, with the things which are in sight. 




Bad habits are hounds which you take in, and feed ; 

You don't have to coax them at all ; 
Just give them one meal, they'll return, that's their breed: 

You won't have to whistle or call. 
They will follow your tracks wherever you go, 

Although you have found you don't need them; 
They're right at your heels, be your gait fast or slow. 

They'll stay, as long as you feed them. 
They get active and strong, on the food they're fed, 

They think you're weak, so won't mind you; 
They run on ahead, and refuse to be led, — 

You'll seldom find them behind you. 
They hamper your speed, and are right in your way, 

When you hunt a job, they're around; 
But the man who would hire, and good wages pay, 

Don't want a man, led by a hound. 
You've tired of the hounds, and ashamed to be seen 

With dogs, which are stronger than you; 
You're sorry you fed them, they turned out so mean. 

But you did, so what can you do'? 
There's one way to shake them; don't feed them a thing; 

Starvation will drive them away. 
When you know the trouble bad habits will bring, 

Starve them out; don't feed them one day. 



In busy marts, with wealth untold, 
Where wares from all the world are sold. 
In stock exchange, and board of trade. 
Where fortunes are both lost, and made, 
We find few men with keener brains 
Than have the newsboys, on the trains. 
Or those who hawk upon the streets, 
Their merchandise of Penny sheets ; 
Working hard from sun 'til sun, — 
Little Merchants, every one. 
Hunting, through the thoroughfares, 
Customers, to buy their wares. 
Reading faces at a glance. 
Selling where there's half a chance; 
Fleet of foot, and keen of eye. 
Scanning every passerby. 
Sorting from the surging throng 
Patrons, as they move along. 
Ever busy, day and night, 
Little Merchants, you're all right; 
Wherever man has blazed a trail, 
And train or ship delivers mail. 
You'll find these hustlers on the street. 
Little Merchants, hard to beat. 


No clerks to hire, nor rent to pay, 

Yet Merchants^ in a smaller way. 

With attic bed, and lunchroom fare. 

They're at home, most anywhere. 

In looking through the halls of fame. 

We find recorded, many a name 

Of those who worked with unshod feet. 

As Little Merchants, on the street. 




Sometime when you've a day to spare, 

And nothing much to do, 
Just put aside your every care. 

And live the whole day through — 
Just being good. 

Just walk around, and view the things 

You've seen on other days; 
Then notice what a change it brings. 

When viewed from better ways — 
While being good. 

Should things go wrong, just curb your wrath, 

And whistle for awhile; 
If thorns and briars strew your path, 

Just step aside and smile — 
That's being good. 

Cast out the thoughts which would annoy. 

Put jealousy aside; 
'T will fill your heart with perfect jo)'^ — 

And you'll be glad you tried 
Just being good. 


Be honor bright in every deal, 
And pleasant in your speech ; 

You'll be so happy, you will feel 
That Heaven is in reach, 
When you are good. 

But let me warn you, ere you start 

To live One day just right. 
You'll have to work with brain and heart. 

And try with all your might — 
When being good. 

The tempter lurks on every hand 
To try and thwart your plan. 

Just give the World to understand 
You are a noble man. 
And being good. 

You'll find it hard to break away 

From Habits long ingrown, 
But you'll declare this trial day, 

The best you've ever known — 
Just being good. 




Perched high aloft, in stately pine, 

An object greets the eyes; 
A mass of brush and limbs entwine 

The Home of one that flies. 
With cautious tread I near the spot. 

To get a better view ; 
When suddenly I find my plot 

Is known by others, too. 
A whir of wings, a piercing scream, 

Puts courage to the test — 
An Eagle — of all birds, supreme — 

Has come to guard its nest. 
With hurried pace I make retreat, 

Nor speak an unkind word ; 
I'm not ashamed of my defeat, 

'Twas Uncle Sammy's bird. 



The highest pinnacle that man can reach, 
And the greatest gospel that he may preach, 
Is to love the truth, and to hate a lie; 
Without this virtue, our honor would die. 
For Truth is the essence of all that's good. 
The real foundation of Brotherhood; 
It comes from the heart that is clean and pure, 
And makes our pledges of honor secure ; 
It conquers selfishness, greed and deceit, 
Expels from the mind any impulse to cheat; 
Puts into prayer the force of the Soul, 
Brings us results, for it reaches the goal. 
Promise, without truth, is hollow and dead, — 
We base our hope on the promise ahead. 
Teach it, and preach it, instill it in youth, 
Then practice it daily; telling the truth. 




I've heard enough of solemn stuff, 
Of bloody wars and such ; 
If men must fight, why that's all right, 
I shall not worry much. 

I love the one who's full of fun — 
Who smiles when he is down — 
He is the guy who'd rather die 
Than wear a sullen frown. 

The Pessimist will not be missed, 
He always wears a scowl ; 
His head is bent, his time is spent 
In putting up a howl. 

The Optimist should head the list 
Of good things here on earth ; 
His cheerful ways fill gloomy days 
With laughter, song and mirth. 

He wears a smile, makes life worth while. 

To worry gives the gaff; 

He fills with cheer our visit here. 

Nor craves an epitaph. 


Don't count the cost of things )^ou've lost, 
But prize the things you've won; 
The man worth while, can always smile 
At some e;ood work he's done. 


He has the dope on joy and hope — 
Thru life his only staff — 
And when he's thru, he smiles at you, 
Then gives a farewell laugh. 



De Leon of old, with his followers bold, 

Sought in vain, for The Fountain of Youth ; 

He spent all his gold, then he died, so we're told, 
Yet he never discovered the truth. 

To youth he would cling, and this magical spring 
He would locate, regardless of cost; 

'Twould happiness bring, and rob time of its sting. 
And the fear of old age would be lost. 

Over desert and plain, in sunshine and rain, 
He sought only this one priceless stream; 

His quest was in vain, and his misguided brain 
Went to sleep with its beautiful dream. 

He was bold, he was brave, yet only a Slave 

To delusion, and selfish conceit ; 
There's nothing can save any man from the grave ; 

Time is one thing we never can cheat. 


[54] ,; 




I've never known a man all bad, 
With no redeeming features, 

Nor one so good, but that he had 
Some faults of Human creatures. 

Man sometimes falls so very low, 
He may seem beyond recall ; 

Just be his friend, and let him know 
You've confidence in all. 

Don't rate yourself as perfect man. 
And of your goodness preach, 

In others find all good you can — 
There's some of it in each. 




I love the pansies, meek and mild; 
They sooth my nature rough and wild, 
They breathe a perfume in the air, 
Which drives away all doubt and care. 

In Winter's season when you go 
To sleep beneath the ice and snow, 
I'll wait and watch 'till sun and rain 
Shall bring my pansies back again. 

Oh pansies rare, with varied hue. 

My heart shall ever yearn for you; 

I'll treasure you through life, sweet flower. 

And love you every day and hour, — 

And when I leave this world of care, 
And make the journey over there, 
I'll know 'tis Heaven, when I see 
My pansies, looking up at me. 



Do you realize how much depends 

On what you say and do? 
You have a host of unknown friends, 

Who'll pattern after you. 

They weigh your words, and watch your acts, 

Then try and do the same ; 
They follow meekly in your tracks, 

To infamy or fame. 

You little know how many eyes 

Are watching you each day, — 
Which never stop to criticize, 

But imitate your way. 

So live, that you can proudly say, 

"I wish the world to see 
The friends, I've met along the way. 

Who patterned after me." 



You should never leave home with a curse, or a frown, 

Declaring you'll never return; 
There's a strange fascination about the Old Town, 

Which causes the wanderer to yearn. 

Yes, you may, or you may not come back there again — 

But the chances are good, that you will, 
So, be careful to leave not behind you a stain, 

Which the joy of Home-coming would kill. 

One is apt to get weary, and long for a change. 

Oftentimes, it is better to go ; 
But you'll find it quite different, chilly and strange, 

When you leave behind all whom you know. 

You should ever remember, when taking your leave, 
There'll be nothing behind you to spurn; 

But you are leaving real friends, to whom you should cleave. 
They would welcome you, should you return. 




Ever notice when some fellow pulls something new and 

And gets in on the money as a real life hustler should, 
There's always some poor worthless mutt whose brain is in 

a fog, 
Who sizes up the winner, with, well he's a "lucky dog;" 
That's the kind of dog to be, there couldn't be one better; 
He sets the pace for others, that's why he's called a setter. 
To be called a dog, and lucky, too, is not so very bad. 
For there are many dogs, who have more brains than this 

guy had. 
But passing up the canine talk, and getting down to sense. 
It is an everlasting fact, the guy who rides the fence. 
And watches others dig and toil, from early morn 'til night, 
Is sure to be the under dog, should he get in a fight; 
The Earth is cumbered with his kind; they're scattered far 

and wide, 
Who seldom cheer the winner, and the loser, they deride ; 
Their only mission seems to be to loaf, and take up space 
And holler to the winner, "Lucky Dog," to get first place. 




It never would do for me to be 

A judge at a baby show ; 
For every one of them, seems to me, 

The prize-winning fairy, you know. 

The eyes may be hazel, or brown, or blue, 
Even black, or gray, or green ; 

They are all alike, when they look at you, 
And ask you to crown them Queen. 

Oh, a baby's smile is so sweet, and pure. 
Its mouth is so cute, when it cries; 

Should I look at them all, I'd not be sure 
Which one to award First Prize. 


Beats the world how many people 

Cover weakness with a bluff; 
Want to tower like a steeple, 

When they're only common stuff". 
It don't seem to cut much figger 

Whar on earth you chance to go, 
You can't really be no bigger 

Than the things you really know; 
You may bluff, an' cut up capers. 

Stall aroun', an' show up great; 
Git yer picter in the papers, 

Surest way to seal yer fate ; 
Fer that's someone goin' to pan you, 

Jes' to see how much yer worth ; 
If you don't prove good, they'll can you, 

Jes' as sure as yer on earth ; 
When a guy climbs up a ladder 

Fer to make some measley stall. 
He's no wiser, but some sadder, 

When he winds up with a fall ; 
This here point I am contendin'. 

It don't pay to pose an' sham; 
Jes' be common, not pretendin' 

Yer as big as Uncle Sam. 
Fer the bluffer is a faker. 

Whom some guy is sure to doubt ; 
Then they call the undertaker, 

An' the bluffer's down an' out. 




When I think of earthly treasures, 

Counting those I've loved and lost, 
Some which brought the greatest pleasures, 

Were the ones of trifling cost ; 
There is one I'll ever cherish. 

For I loved her best of all ; 
She, whose mem'ry cannot perish — 

Betsey Dear, my old rag doll. 
How I used to hug and kiss her, 

Whisper secrets in her ear; 
Now she's gone, oh, how I miss her ! 

My own darling, Betsey Dear. 
I would lovingly caress her, 

As I held her in my arm, 
I would pray to God to bless her. 

And protect her from all harm ; 
Tho she's gone, she's not forgotten, 

I recall her every grace; 
Just a home-made bag of cotton. 

With a Jack-O-Lantern face. 
But my love was as a Mother's, 

With her first born at her breast; 
Tho I've seen a thousand others, 

Still, I love my Betsey best. 



I don't ask for great possessions, with their worry and their 

I want freedom, food, and water, work and light, and pure 

Just a place that's ever homelike, wild birds singing in the 

I can pass up other pleasures, when I am supplied with 


Just a cozy little Cabin, nestling near a silvery stream. 
The quiet of the wilderness, has been my fondest dream ; 
Far away from Town and City, with their busy surging 

I'm contented, yes, delighted, for I'm right where I belong. 

Just a little piece of clearing for the garden, and the flowerS; 
Just a porch, and easy rocker, there to spend my idle hours ; 
Just a chance to make a living, and from debt and care be 

That's the height of my ambition, it is good enough for me. 

For the World is full of worry, in the rush for getting 

Many sacrifice their freedom, gaining gold and losing health; 
He is rich, who is contented, be his portion large, or small ; 
Just to make an honest living, is the life that beats them all. 



There comes a comforter with power — 
Unknown to him who mourneth not — 

Which soothes the Soul in sorrow's hour, 
When ev'ry joy has been forgot; 

I know not what this power may be, 

Which cheers the heart, and brings a smile, 

That lights the way so we may see. 
And makes us care to live a while. 

On Battle-field, in Prison cell. 

Where gloom and anguish reign supreme. 
It brings the message, "All is well" — 

And soothes us, as a pleasant dream. 

It stills our pain, and heals our wounds. 
Implants a smile on careworn face; 

It carries hope where gloom abounds. 
And cheers the loser in the race. 

This power must be of Heaven born, 

The silent songs which deaf mutes sing; 

Transforms the night to brightest morn, — 
And turns bleak Winter into Spring. 

It hovers near the Angel Death, 

And whispers words of hope and cheer 

To him, who parts with life's last breath. 
And tells him he hath "nought to fear." 



The way of the World is a riddle unsolved, 

As much so today, as when man first evolved; 

Such strange contradictions, of virtue and vice, 

One could not get a clue, by living life twice. 

The longer one lives, the more complex it seems; 

As hard to interpret, as most of our dreams. 

They are falling around us, these Mortals, who tried 

To solve this great problem, but tailed, and have died. 

Of man's true origin, I've nothing to say; 

Just take it for granted, he's animate clay. 

His career, instead, I use for my topic, 

From cradle to grave, so kaleidoscopic. 

So full of quick changes, from hope to dismay. 

For gladness to sadness may change in a day; 

There are some who must sow, for others to reap ; 

There are some who may laugh, while others must weep. 

There are those who must fast, while others may feast; 

Some who have most, should by right, have the least. 

'Tis the portion of some to toil all thru life, 

While others live on, without labor or strife; 

So many Religions the Soul to confuse, 

We scarcely know which is the right one to choose ; 

So few of his secrets has God given to man. 

That we live, and we die, without knowing his plan. 



In the ramble, rush and scramble, 

For the treasures here on Earth, 
Where men rush, and push, and gamble 

For the things of little worth, 
Be a winner, shun the sinner, 

If you wish to reach the goal. 
Do not let some Shylock skinner 

Get a mortgage on your Soul. 
They will flatter, with their chatter. 

Say you are too smart to work. 
All your good resolves they'd shatter. 

All your duties have you shirk; 
These deceivers, unbelievers. 

Carry poison in their bowl ; 
When you're bankrupt, these receivers 

Close the mortgage on your Soul. 
If you stumble, do not grumble 

When the road's a little rough. 
Just be honest, patient, humble. 

Smile, if only for a bluff; 
If you're stranded, empty-handed 

On life's rough and rocky shoal, 
Just be thankful that you landed 

With no mortgage on your Soul. 



When money is cheap, and you have plenty, 
And fifty dollars seem just like twenty, 
You have plenty of friends, and are flying high. 
Things gaudy and flashy you quickly buy; 
You would have it distinctly understood, 
That this is your day for "sawing wood." 
Which may be all right, so far as it goes. 
You've a legal right, to squander and pose. 
To spend your money as you think best, — 
So long as you do no harm to the rest; 
But after the crash, and you find you're broke. 
You'll again "saw wood" but 'twill be no joke. 



I'll stand bravely in line while the numbers are called, 

When at last I hear mine, I will not be appalled; 

But respond to the voice calling softly and low, 

Which would give me no choice, if I wished to say no; 

Tho' I'd linger awhile midst the pleasures down here. 

With a tear and a smile, I will go without fear; 

I've been taught from my youth that this summons must 

Then I'll know as a truth, it is calling me home — 
Where another career with others I'll share, 
Leaving earth friends down here, for the ones over there. 



Midst life's busy confusion, turmoil and strife, 

In the crush and jam of the pelf-getting herd, 
Where dollars are valued above human life, 

With "Get Yours" the slogan, and "Dollars" the word, 
I've been crowded, and elbowed, pushed out of line. 

Have been offered inducements to steal and lie; 
But turned them aside — for I knew "I'd get mine" — 

I carried the banner of Honor held high. 



I watch my old clock as it ticks off the time 
That stands between me and the grave ; 

Each half hour it rings a melodious chime, 
Which tells me be patient and brave. 

I know not the time it may tick off the hour 

That closes my earthly career; 
Time is controlled by an infinite power, — 

In which I have faith, and no fear. 

I have watched that old clock as days glided by, 

And treasured it as a dear friend ; 
But in days of sorrow when time does not fly, 

I'd ask, "will the day never end?" 

When at last it shall chime my last hour on earth. 

And my soul is ready for flight, 
I'll bless this old friend, that has timed me from birth, 

And bid it a tearful good-night. 




Don't let a harmful habit handicap your race, 

And instead of winning, you take the loser's place. 

Call upon your manhood, to break the chains in two, 

Then when you are free from them, see what you can do: 

Bad habits are a burden, hampering your speed. 

They always make you follow, when you ought to lead; 

Rob you of ambition, and fill your heart with fear. 

Spoil a world of pleasure, while you're stopping here; 

So never let bad habits get the best of you, 

Quit the ones you're forming, then start all over new. 




In the darkest hour of sadness, 
When we see no sign of gladness 

Bright and gay, 
Then our portion seems but sorrow, 
And we dread to see tomorrow, 

Let us pray 
That the sun may soon be shining 
On the soul that's now repining, 

Grant it may. 
Sorrow, tho it seems depressing, 
Oftentimes brings us a blessing 

Which will stay. 
There's a thought that's ever cheering, 
Troubles, such as we are fearing. 

Pass away. 



Of your promises, be sparing, 

They are hazards at the best; 
And the pledges bound by swearing, 

Are no stronger than the rest; 
He is wise who says, "tomorrow 

Is not mine, and I'm afraid. 
If I run in debt, or borrow, 

I may die, before 'tis paid." 
This same rule, apply to lending — 

What you've labored, long, to get- 
To the one, who's always spending 

All his cash, then runs in debt; 
"Pay spot cash, or do not get it," 

Should be written on your wall. 
Once a habit, none regret it. 

It applies to one and all. 



While riding along on a fast moving train, 

Far from the city, out on the broad plain. 

Glancing at objects which are quickly passed by, 

So strange and varied they weary the eye. 

An object approaches, with wonderful speed, — 

And all the grace of a beautiful steed; 

Which threatens one moment to leave us behind, 

Then reels, like a man gone suddenly blind; 

Again it comes bounding without aim or heed. 

Like a wild Gazelle, from its captors, freed; 

It was only a "Tumble Weed" in a gale. 

Which suddenly stopped when it hit the rail. 

This moral I draw from the weed on the plain. 

Like "ambitious man," it races in vain; 

He rushes along like a runaway slave, 

'Til brought to a halt, at brink of the grave. 



You say that your books are posted, 
And they show you out of debt; 

You, like other men, have boasted 
You'd be independent yet. 

But, my friend, just wait a minute. 
Let's review the whole account; 

See what "credits" are shown in it. 
And of "charges," the amount. 

Maybe there is something lacking 
In the "credits," you have shown. 

You have surely had some backing. 
If the truth were only known. 

"Independence'?" never claim it^ 
For it don't belong to man; 

If successful, then so name it, 
When an honest race you ran. 



Ain't it queer how Dear old Santa 
Knows where all the children live*? 

Ev'ry year he finds our shanty, 
An' he knows jes' what to give. 

Wonder how he ever found us, 
On our homestead way up here, 

With the big woods all around us? 
Bet it was his old "Reindeer," 

Guess he hears us kids a-praying; 

For he almost always brings — 
What he must have heard us saying — 

All the nicest kind of things. 

Seems to know I want a dolly, 
And my bruvver wants a train; 

Santa's always good and jolly. 
And I hope he'll come again. 



'Tis not hard to pick the winner, who beat some game of 

With bullhead luck, and nothing else, you know him at a 

He wrinkles up his forehead, just to make folks think he's 

The hat he wore but yesterday, is now, too small in size. 
He talks about "his system" which he figured out alone, 
While if it had not been for "luck" he never would be 

known ; 
You can also pick the loser; he's full of "ifs" and "ands" 
He prates about his wisdom, tho he shows you empty hands; 
The prize he lost, he would have won, but for a slight 

Or else avers, some crooked deal, had caught him in a trap; 
But there's another type of "sport," tho' very rare indeed, 
Who sits and grins, nor makes a kick, altho they have him 

We do not often meet him, but he's really worth while, — 
The loser, who can whistle, and will greet you with a smile. 



A palace grand with marble halls, 

With paintings rare and frescoed walls, 

Art treasures from every land, 

And well trained servants at command, 

Books of masters with knowledge stored, 

Stocks and bonds, and money to hoard. 

Gorgeous mansion with treasures rare, 

Yet, not a home; for love's not there; 

No children grace the well-kept lawn. 

This man has gold to lean upon. 

We need linger no longer here. 

If we seek homes of love and cheer, 

Next in line, comes the great hotel. 

Where multitudes of humans dwell; 

'Twas built for those who fain would roam, 

God pity those who call it home ; 

These are machines to grind out gold, 

A makeshift home, that's bought and sold: 

Such are homes of the transient herd, 

Love is lacking in look and word; 

A "loveless" home, is none at all. 

And soon, or late, is sure to fall; 

What we call home it matters not 

Be it palace, or humble cot, — 

If love is there, and reigns supreme, 

This place is "HOME," all else, a dream. 



'Tis queer how many offer to help you put in crops, 
When "wild oats" are the seeds you have to sow, 

As long as you are furnishing, no one ever stops, 

They're "good fellows" as they wish to have you know. 

But later, comes a season with harvest time at hand, 
You gaze upon your field of thorn and weed; 

'Tis then )^ou fully realize, you've brought "ruin" to your 
land, — 
By using both good-fellows and poor seed. 



Just a friendly handshake, and a word of cheer, 
Makes a lonesome fellow glad he's living here; 
Takes you but a moment some kind act to do, 
As you do by others, may they do by you. 

Don't be in a hurry, stop and rest awhile; 
Cheer some face that's saddened, paint on it a smile. 
Words of cheer will lighten burdens, hard to bear, 
Rays of sunshine brighten; make foul weather, fair. 

It will make you happy, drying others' tears. 
Speaking words of comfort, quieting their fears; 
Don't get over-busy with your own affairs, 
But be ever thoughtful of another's cares. 




Your life is what you make it, in a way, 
You have but little reason to complain; 

For 'tis the thoughts you think, and words you say, 
Which bring you joy, or make you suffer pain. 

And knowing well the line twixt right and wrong, 
Dishonesty and hatred you should spurn; 

For to the authors of such things, belong 

The pain and grief they bring when they return. 

If smiles be what you crave, then plant a smile; 

If kindness you would have, give some away. 
You'd fill your life with pleasure all the while, 

By doing something good yourself^ each day. 



This is an age of wonders — we see them every day, 

We marvel at the things which greet the eye; 
We glance at them a moment, then hurry on our way, 

As new things come, we bid the old good-bye. 
Man flies away beyond the clouds, with eagle's skill and 

Such wonders has the mind of man conceived; 
The thrillers of last summer are passe or commonplace, 

Such marvels has the mind of man achieved. 
We have the submarine, which dives beneath the ocean 

Our wireless message finds a ship at sea; 
Lightning, Fire and Water, are now man's obedient slaves, 

Can things of greater wonder, ever be? 
I answer yes, a million times more wonderful than these — 

Are works of Nature shown on every hand — 
A blade of grass, a flower; for in each of them, one sees 

A work of Art, produced by God's own hand. 



I mourn the loss of a dear old friend, 

I am lonesome without him here; 
A man on whom I could ever depend — 

For his honor he held most dear. 

He earned his bread by the sweat of his brow, 

His portion in life was to toil; 
His soul is at rest in Glory right now, 

His body is covered with soil. 

He was honored by all who love true worth, 
He craved neither gold nor applause; 

Just the kind of man who's needed on earth, 
A lover and keeper of laws. 

By nature, unselhsh, pleasant, and sweet, 

His life was really worth while; 
A life, that nothing but death could defeat, 

Nor could make him too tired to smile. 



Your conscience is just like a faithful old dog, 

It will follow wherever you go; 
Regardless of weather, thru rain, snow and fog, 

It is with you in weal or in woe. 

You may try ev'ry way to leave it behind, 
You may beat it and curse it in vain ; 

But just look behind you and there you will find 
That old faithful is with you again. 

There is no way to shake it, try as you may. 
In the wheels of your life, 'tis a cog; 

It is right at your heels by night and by day, 
You can not get away from your dog. 



Springtime always brings a yearning 
For my boyhood's happy days; 

When the bonfires were a-burning, 
And the sky a smoky haze, 

When the Robins were a-hopping, 
And the angle-worms appeared 

When the willow buds were popping, 
And the meadow brook had cleared. 

Guess I never shall outgrow it — 
Wishing I were young again — 

Lucky Boy, but didn't know it; 
Never thought of grief, or pain. 

Every day was just a play day, 

Would never change as I could see. 

But it did change, now 'tis pay-day. 
And the paying's done by me. 

But I'm getting lots of pleasure 
Out of life, and everything; 

For my memory holds a treasure, — 
That of Boyhood's happy Spring. 



Of all brute friends, you are the best; 

Your love is faithful, pure and true. 
Few Human friends have stood the test, 

And proven worthy as have you. 

Tho dumb your voice to human speech, 
I understand your talk quite well; 

Your loving eyes their lessons teach. 
They speak of love no tongue can tell. 

Close at my heels, from morn 'til night. 
Alert to hear me speak your name; 

Tho I go wrong, you think I'm right, 
And keep on loving me the same. 

Ah, could my Human friends possess 

Fidelity as strong as thine; 
'Twould fill my heart with happiness. 

And make a joyous life of mine. 



I would like to revisit the Old Town once more, 

And see how 'tis standing the years; 
But I know of the sad disappointment in store, 

For the changes I'm sure would bring tears. 
First, I'd look for the Home where I lived when a Boy, 

I'd look for the dear ones I love : 
There but sadness would greet me, instead of great joy. 

They're waiting for me up above. 
And the faces of friends, of the sweet long ago, 

Which mem'ry retains fresh and clear, 
All have changed; 'til I'm sure there are few I would know. 

Of those who are lingering here. 
I might travel the streets of the town of my youth, 

A stranger I'd be in the place; 
Their looks would tell me the unpleasant truth, — 

"You are old, we've forgotten your face." 
Tho I'd like to go back, there's a lingering doubt, — 

Would the pleasure outweigh the pain? 
Still, there's always a craving hovering about — 

To visit "the Old Town" again. 



Last New Year's Day while feeling gay, 

Bad habits you forsook; 
And said that you'd begin that day 

To keep a nice clean book. 

You turned a leaf in firm belief 

That no Lilliputian 
Could overthrow, and bring to grief 

Your new resolution. 

You felt as strong as Samson then, 

And made it very clear 
You would not hit the trail again. 

As you had done last year. 

A few short months have rolled away, 
As nature willed they should; 

I wonder can you truly say 
That you are making good? 

You know you made it pretty strong, 

You meant it then perhaps. 
But one whole year is pretty long. 

And promises may lapse. 

Well if you haven't quite made good. 
Let's hope you're not the worst; 

Look back, and see just how you stood. 
Last January First. 



I would not live beyond the time when I may be of use, 
And have to lay my colors down, and bear the flag of truce. 
To sit around with trembling limbs, and fan life's dying 

And only mar the landscape, as a dead tree in a park; 
With fading sight, and toothless mouth, and mem'ry gone 

The world would only look on me as being in the way; 
I'd rather live a useful life, and live a few years less,— 
Than linger on, when I've outlived my days of usefulness. 
There might be some who'd care to look upon my wrinkled 

But most of those would soon forget, when others take my 

When I've outlived my usefulness, regardless of my age, 
I hope and pray, that then I may be ushered off the stage. 


Wait, gentle reader, just a minute, 
Lest I might be misunderstood; 

That one word "USEFUL" has 7nuch in it- 
It means the act of doing good. 

One may be crippled, aged, and broken. 
And yet be "USEFUL" all the while; 

If from his lips kind words are spoken, 
And on his face there beams a smile. 



Among life's failures, look for the cause, 

Perhaps 'twas neglect of nature's laws; 

Not all of the losers are to blame. 

But many of them are, just the same; 

Their lives are only an existence, 

Following lines of least resistance; 

They sit in the shade while others work. 

And only plan their duty to shirk; 

Living by sweat of another's brow. 

Winning by wit, for awhile, somehow. 

Drifting along on the river's crest. 

Making no effort to do their best. 

Floating along with an unconcern 

Of danger, lurking at ev'ry turn; 

To calls for help they are dumb indeed, 

For theirs is a life of selfish greed; 

Finally going from bad to worse, 

'Til laws, which govern the Universe — 

Judging men by their real true worth — 

Say, "idlers should have no place on earth." 

They lie on their beds of husks and chaff. 

While many who know them, only laugh; 

They harvest the fields which they have sown, 

And die in poverty, all alone. 



When love comes in and reigns supreme, 
We realize our fondest dream, 
The answer to our fervent prayer, 
Which drives away our doubt and care. 
For love, when once it rules the heart, 
Becomes the active vital part ; 
Supplies the mind with thoughts all pure, 
Safeguards the Soul, makes it secure. 
Makes glad the heart that's had a care. 
Brings joy and sunshine everywhere; 
Gives birth to patience, virtue, prayer. 
Makes heavy burdens light to bear; 
The strongest element in man, 
And first of all, in God's great plan; 
It fills our lives with perfect bliss, — 
There's nought, but love, can do all this. 



When trouble stares you in the face, 

And hardships sore oppress you, 
Perhaps they'll help you win the race; 

They torture, then they bless you. 

It might be you would lag behind, 

But for the goad of sorrow, 
The loser of today, may find 

A way to win tomorrow. 

Don't give up hope, because of grief, 

And claim you are ill-fated. 
Another day may bring relief, 

Then you'll be glad you waited. 

Crowd into life, each day and hour. 
The goodness that's within you; 

Your Soul will gain in strength and power- 
Besides the friends 'twill win you. 

The darkest night can only stay 

At the most, a little while; 
Your sorrows, too, must pass away, — 

If you wait, and trust, and smile. 



Man's nature seems to be, to crave 

The things which bring applause and fame; 

To do some act considered brave, 
And call attention to his name. 

Some, born of genius, win applause. 
With scarce an effort on their part; 

While others, through some unknown cause, 
Have disappointment, from the start. 

Some risk their lives in doing things 

Which, at the most, could win but wealth; 

Which very often spreads its wings 

And leaves them "broke," in purse and health. 

I've seen all this, in my few years; 

I've watched the passing show go by, — 
Have learned, these things are bought with tears: 

There's nought but GOOD, can satisfy. 



If we would ''weigh" the words we say, 

And speak but those we mean, 
We'd save a lot of talk each day, 

And keep our conscience clean. 

The idle words we often speak, 

And promises we make. 
If given credence, by the weak. 

May cause some heart to ache. 

We never know the pain and sting 

An idle word may start ; 
We never can erase one thing. 

We've written on a heart. 

'Tis best to "weigh'" each sentence well, 

And as I've said before, 
Tho "we'd not have so much to tell, 

'Twould mean a whole lot more." 



Remember, my friend, when sowing your seeds, 

To choose with great care, every grain; 
For in every field there are some noxious weeds, 

Be careful, don't plant them again. 

Select each seed with the greatest of care. 

Cast out every one that is bad; 
When harvest time comes, you'll have, as your share, 

A field that will make your heart glad. 

If careless of seed, your work's thrown away. 

The harvest will show your mistakes; 
Choose with care your words and acts every day. 

Then note the difference it makes; 

Kind words, and good acts, are seeds which will pay — 

They will thrive wherever they're sown; 
All others are foul — you should throw them away. 

And leave them forever alone. 



So many there are, who censure another, 

Instead of extending a brotherly hand; 
Giving advice like a father or mother. 

Lift him up on his feet, and help him to stand. 

Some, pose as judges of others around them, 
Forgetting, they, too, are as weak as the rest. 

But think the Halos of Glory surround them, — 
Of God's chosen children, they're purest and best. 

Too busy, to help another from falling, 

Too pure, to reach down in the gutter to save 

A brother, or sister helplessly calling 

For someone, to snatch them from sin and the grave. 

They pose as Saints, placed on earth among sinners, 
Too jealous, to lift them to their high estate; 

Sometime, they'll find that the others are winners; 
They'd gladly change place, but find 'tis too late. 



Many times I've heard repeated this old saying trite and 

"Cast your bread upon the waters, and it will return to 

It may not come back tomorrow, you may have to wait 

Don't despair, nor be impatient, wait and watch, and trust 

and smile. 
For the law of compensation deals alike with one and all, 
As you planted in the Springtime, you shall harvest in the 

Every little act of kindness, every little word of praise, 
Tho' forgotten for the moment, shall return in many days; 
You may pray in faith believing, watch and wait, then pray 

If the answer seem belated, you may think your prayers 

in vain; 
If 'tis best that you should have it, you will get your heart's 

Just be patient, good, and trusting, and to noble things 

aspire ; 
Do, each day, some act that's noble, cheer some heart, dry 

someone's tears, 
Your reward is sure and certain, as you'll find in after years. 



I have no fear of this thing called death- 
When the body goes back to the earth — 

And I exhale the last bit of breath 

That was breathed in my nostrils at birth; 

Trusting all to the Great Architect, 

Who plans seed time and harvest for all, 

He gave me life, and I must expect 
To surrender the same, at his call ; 

I'm not afraid to lie down and die, - 
I shall quit this old world with a smile; 

But I'm not ready to say Good-bye, 
I would like to stay here, vet awhile. 




I have prayed to the Lord to guide me aright; 

To lead me from darkness, into the light; 

To mark the way which is Godly and true, 

And show me the work, He would have me do; 

My soul has cried out, in anguish and grief, 

For some sign from Heaven, to bring me relief; 

Tho' I've stood on the brink of the Chasm, Despair, 

Where one step, would take me way "over there," 

Yet His love, and pity have urged me to stay. 

Giving me hope of another bright day; 

My spirit calls out, from the darkness of night, 

And begs me keep on, not give up the fight; 

I'm satisfied now, that the Lord has it planned 

That I'm all right, tho' I can't understand; 

So I'll follow the paths He lays out for me. 

And work 'til He calls, whenever that be. 



You'd better say "I'll try," than say "I will"; 

And keep your word of honor, good and true ; 
For when you promise, and fail to fulfill. 

Your friends soon lose their confidence in you. 

Don't set a time to do a thing, unless 

You're reasonably sure, you'll meet that date; 

For then, 'twould be a promise, not a guess. 
And something might occur to make you late. 

'Tis well to make a promise, when you're sure 
But even then, you'd better say "I'll try," 

Your disappointed friends would be the fewer. 
And no one then, could say you told a lie. 



The plan of nature seems to be 
That we should have variety; 
The rich and poor, the good and bad, 
The weak and mighty, gay and sad. 
The meek, and haughty, high and low, 
All take a part in life's great show; 
Each one must play his little part, 
As nature planned it from the start; 
Some crave applause, and hearty cheers. 
While some would move the heart to tears: 
Each actor has his part to learn. 
And each must do his little turn; 
No matter how his taste it suits, 
He cannot put on substitutes; 
And whether cheers, or hisses greet, 
His lines once said, he can't repeat; 
He leaves the stage, with hurried pace, 
Another actor takes his place. 



Be on your guard, for the tempter is near you, 
In search of a weak spot where he may attack; 

He is a coward, with reason to fear you; 

Like a panther, he waits, then jumps on your back. 

Afraid to come out and make known his mission, 
Afraid to expose his vile face to your view ; 

He strikes when he finds you in weakened condition. 
His arrows are poison, his aim quick and true; 

He knows all your thoughts, your moods, and your passions. 
He's planning your downfall from morning 'til night; 

The snares and pitfalls he cunningly fashions 
Are not in Tour path, if you keep to the Right. 




One need not go to foreign land 

To be a missionary, 
Just do the work that is at hand, 

That's all that's necessary. 

The weak and sinful, both, are here. 
In this enlightened Nation. 

Don't be surprised if some appear 
Among your own relation. 

If you would save a Soul or two, 
Do not rush across the seas; 

There's plenty here, for you to do. 
Why not save a few of these*? 

If saving Souls be what you crave. 
You will not have far to roam ; 

First ask the Lord, your own to save. 
Then, do mission work at home. 




When the heart is full of sorrow, 

And the head is full of pain, 
And you dread to see tomorrow 

With its added cares and strain, 

When the charm of life has vanished. 

And you see no light ahead, 
All your fondest hopes are banished, 

And you live among the dead. 

Every hope which you had cherished, 
Every friend you thought was true, 

In a day, they all have perished. 
Then, my friend, 'tis up to you; 

Up to you, to fight "lone-handed," 

Win or lose, go right ahead; 
You're in luck to be just stranded, 

Just suppose that you were dead; 

Dead men, leave all hope behind them, 
Live men, have a fighting chance; 

Joys abound, and you will find them. 
Wake your soul from out its trance. 



Everything is lovely, when the tide is running high, 

With friends and money plenty, and no grief to bring a 

The World seems filled with gladness, and you're truly 
glad to live. 

There's scarce a pleasure offered, but you have the price 
to give; 

Then, the World is full of flowers, your path with roses 

All your thoughts are for the living, to you there's noth- 
ing dead; 

Tides are fickle, ever changing, they ebb, and then they 

Be prepared to meet the changes, when the tide is run- 
ning low; 

Your hand will lose its cunning, and your words will lose 
their charm. 

Many things you now call pleasures, bring only pain and 

"Good fellows" who flock 'round you, feigning friendship, 
then will go, — 

And leave you "broke," and "stranded," when the tide is 
running low. 



The bravest heroes in the world, are those who fight alone ; 
Heroically, they win or lose, nor let their names be known; 
They crave not the wreath of laurel, nor give thought to 

Though they fight a losing battle, they are heroes just the 

Their hearts may break with sorrow, and their eyes be dim 

with tears. 
They weep alone in silence, so that no one overhears; 
The only help they ever call, is from their God above, — 
Their battles are within their hearts, between despair and 

Sometimes they win, sometimes they lose, the World may 

never know, 
For should they win, you'd never hear a bugler's trumpet 

And if they lose, they only smile in listless sort of way. 
And never tell the "World" about their silent bitter fray. 



To get the best of anything — 
Which everyone should try, 

A motto to which each should cling 
Is, "let my aim be high." 

The very best the World affords. 

Is none too good for you, 
And bear in mind, if you look towards 

The top, 'tis right in view. 

This rule applies to many things. 

And is not apt to fail; 
From common laborers to Kings 

Or goods displayed for sale. 

The best you'll very seldom find 

Beneath a poorer grade ; 
But at the top, the finest kind 

Of everything's displayed. 



The rarest man on earth today, 

No matter where you go, 
Is one who's not ashamed to say 

"I really do not know." 

If you seek for "information," 
Just let your wants be known, 

And you'll hear a fine oration 
On things you would be shown. 

No matter what the subject be — 
Should you but ask advice — 

You'll get the "information" free, 
Though dear at half that price. 

I'd like to meet the fellow, who, — 
When asked if planets grow? 

Would simply smile, and say to you 
"I'm sure I do not know." 

Most any yokel will explain 

Beware of him; for he's a vain 

"Information" Bureau. 



Take the perfume of the rose, 

Take the gentlest breeze that blows, 

Take the sweetest of your dreams, 

Take the sparkling mountain streams. 

Take the honey from a flower. 

Take the warm midsummer shower, 

Take the songs the angels sing. 

Take the clearest bells that ring, 

Take the sweetest voice you've heard. 

Take the warble of a bird. 

Take the brightest star that shines. 

Take the odor of the pines. 

Take the joy of lover's kiss. 

Take a peep at perfect bliss. 

Take the sparkle of a gem. 

Take, I say, take all of them; 

Everything I've named above. 

And they spell the one word, "LOVE." 



How many "so-called" friends we'd lind — 
If we'd take time to sort 'em — 

That's just the common, thoughtless kinci, 
Which we may call "post-mortem." 

They overlook our virtues now, 
And seldom think to praise us; 

But at our graves, their heads they'll bow, 
And weep as though to raise us. 

Their bit of praise comes all too late. 
And by the time they've said it, 

Our Souls are at the pearly gate, 
Before they gave us credit. 



If we should get the things for which we've prayed, 
The things we thought we could not live without, 

And had to keep all promises we've made, 
Believing we'd make good, without a doubt, 

A world of trouble we'd be in today; 

We'd have our life and liberty at stake; 
If we'd get all the things for which we pray, 

And fulfill every promise that we make. 

We pray, each day, for things which we deem best; 

The things we feel would bring us perfect bliss; 
And tomorrow, would earnestly request 

Some blessing, just the opposite to this. 

We promise everything within our power. 
We make new pledges, almost every day; 

If we'd make good^ we'd scarcely find an hour 
In which to make new pledges, or to pray. 



If you have a talent, use it; 

Do not try to hide away 
Such a blessing, nor abuse it; 

You might lose it any day. 

Maybe God has only lent it — 
Just to see what you would do. 

If you foolishly have spent it, 
Or have hidden it from view. 

You have wronged the one who gave it. 
Also done yourself a wrong; 

If you have a talent, save it; 
Or you may not keep it long. 



"Restless things we mortals be," 
Roaming over land and sea; 
Each, on different mission bent, 
Very few seem quite content; 
Some would scale the mountain peak. 
Others, lower levels seek; 
Some are lucky, others not; 
All depends upon their lot. 
Some reach their mark, others fail ; 
Many fall beside the trail. 
Should one lag, or slack his pace, 
Someone quickly takes his place; 
All this busy, surging throng, 
To which you and I belong, 
Reach, at last, a common goal, — 
Where the body frees the Soul; 
Rich and poor, and King and slave. 
Have one Goal; and that, the grave. 



The bravest man in the world today, 
And most worthy our praise and cheers, 

Is he, who seems so happy and gay. 
But really smiles thru his tears. 

The one whose heart is heavy and sad 
With a sorrow that's all his own; 

Yet keeps smiling and seems to be glad, 
And weeps only when he's alone. 

Tho' bitter the cup he is quaffing. 

And heavy his burden to bear, 
He keeps right on smiling and laughing, 

And should wear a Crown "over there." 



How can we ask for mercy, and expect to have it shown, 
Tho' down and out, and knocked about, and on the cold 

world thrown, 
Unless to others we have been both merciful and kind, 
To man, and brute, to deaf and mute, to maimed, and halt 

and blind*? 
We've no right to ask for help, unless we're helping others; 
Nor think our prayer is heard up there, when we hate our 

If we have done the best we could, with what we had in 

When we're in need, 'tis time indeed, that we may ask 

for more. 



You would have but little sadness 
If you'd look for things that cheer, 

For the world is full of gladness 
Made to charm the eye and ear; 

Just look 'round you for a minute 
At the things you're passing by, 

Everything has goodness in it, 
You can find it if you try. 

There's a song in every flower. 

Health and strength in every breeze; 

Just take a rest, and spend an hour 
With the flowers, birds, and trees. 

Each one holds for you a treasure. 
Which would cheer you on your way: 

Life is full of joy and pleasure, 
Everywhere, and every day. 

Waste no time in hunting sorrow. 
While there's happiness in sight, 

Have no fear about "tomorrow," 
If you live "today," all right. 



With body wear}^ from the work of day, 

The mind, careworn and tired, from constant thought, 
At eventide, we wend our weary way 

To seek repose, upon our slumber cot; 
Night comes at last, to rest the weary eyes — 

And smooth away the wrinkles from the face ; 
'Tis then, we are less apt to realize 

The changes, which are ever taking place. 
Our faculties, o'erstrained, are less alert — 

As comes the change from day to silent night, 
Then, something steals upon us to divert 

The mind; then close the eyes against the light; 
T Unconsciously, but surely, we inhale 

The ether, which kind Nature gives to all. 
With prayer upon our lips, we may not fail 

In answering the coming morrow's call. 
We call it "sleep" — this mystic "land of nod" — 

When Spirit leaves the body, for the night, 
And trusting to the ever watchful God 

To wake the eyes, and give them back their sight. 
The helpless body, lying in repose. 

Awaits the Spirit's coming, in the morn ; 
Again it comes — from whence, nobody knows; 

And once again, the bodv is re-born. 



I love to roam the forest wild 

And gather flowers, as a child ; 

To lay my head in Nature's lap, 

And take a quiet, restful nap; 

To get away from noise and care, 

And breathe the pure and balmy air. 

Of wondrous things the forests tell — 

Which our Red Brothers knew so well; 

Deep trails we find in mossy peat, — 

The marks of moccasin-clad feet, 

A peeled birch tree gives us a clue 

To how they made a bark canoe ; 

A stately pine, a score mark shows 

Cup-shaped, in which the pine pitch flows, 

To pitch the seams of Red-Man's boat. 

Which keeps it dry and safe afloat. 

And there a spruce tree, scarred and torn, 

Shows where a deer has rubbed his horn; 

A hedgehog armed with prickly spine 

Warns us beware ; a porcupine ! 

So many things, all strange and new, 

Each moment burst upon our view. 

To glimpse the virgin forest rare, 

And know the treasures hidden there, 

To roam at will in perfect bliss. 

Can Mortal Man ask more than this*? 



When but a child at school, I learned a lesson, 
Which, to me, has been the best I ever learned; 

And in a thousand ways, has proved a blessing, 
When defeat, into success, for me it turned. 

I used to say, "I can't," when problems stalled me, 
I would say it oftentimes, before I'd try; 

One day, my teacher to the blackboard called me. 
Then she had me write, "I can't," then add, r-y. 

Divide the last six letters in the middle. 

And you'll find you have a "Motto," to live by; 

You remove a stumbling block, and solve a riddle, 

When you change the phrase "I can't," to "I can try. 



There's no use complaining, whatever befall you, 
Perhaps all your cares are but blessings disguised; 

There are various ways in which duty may call you 
To work out the plan she so wisely devised. 

Just take it for granted, your task is essential, 
A part most important in nature's great plan; 

A duty well done, is a noble credential, 

And one to be honored, by God and by man. 

So bravely perform every duty assigned you, 
And never complain of the burdens you bear; 

And you will find pleasures enough to remind )^ou 
That life has more blessings than hardships and care. 



A mansion is only a "dwelling place," 

Which shelters a favored few ; 
While a great percent of the human race 

Have but "humble" homes, in lieu. 

It is not what clothes the body of clay. 

And houses the mortal frame, 
But 'tis the thoughts, which clothe the mind, each day. 

Which makes Man worthy the name. 

If one be honest, and pure of mind — 

Be his home of stone, or sod. 
And his clothing be of a coarser kind — 

He's good, in the sight of God. 

Tho humble his home, and labor his lot, 

If his mind be clean, and pure — 
Let Mansions, and riches of Earth, be forgot — 

His Mansion above, is secure. 



"Stop, look, and listen," a warning we read 
On the highways, where dangers abound ; 

But many there are who take little heed, 
As they carelessly ramble around ; 

Noting the objects they've passed as they sped, 
With their minds all intent on the past, 

Giving no thought to the thing just ahead, 
Nor the danger in going too fast. 

Success is ever awaiting the man 

Who is looking ahead, not behind ; 

He is much safer to have in the van. 

With both Caution and Safety in mind. 

Danger is lurking at every turn. 

So be ever prepared for the worst ; 

We'll travel more safely, if we but learn 
To heed, every day, "Safety First." 



Just a drop of blood in a nation's veins 
To be shed in his Country's cause; 

Upholding its honor, bearing its pains, — 
A soldier defending its laws. 

He bravely responds to his Country's call, 

Giving all that mortal can give ; 
That his Country stand, he'd willingly fall, 

To die, that a Nation might live. 

Like a piece of flint awaiting the steel, 

That causes the war-spark to fly, 
Which bids him go fight for his Country's weal. 

He responds without asking why. 

Ignoring the danger of shot and shell, 
With his Country's flag waving high, 

Aware of duty, and doing it well. 
For Honor, he'd willingly die. 

The fields are strewn and the trenches are filled 
With bodies of those who have fought; 

The soldier goes forth to kill, or be killed, — 
The price with which Honor is bought. 



Tho 'tis cloudy and raining, 
There's no use complaining, 

For the sunshine will come bye and bye; 
Just be patient and humble, 
Do not worry, nor grumble, 

We'll be happy again, you and I. 

Storms and clouds, tho depressing, 
Seldom fail to bring blessing, 

For they give us the much needed rain; 
Intermingling with gladness, 
Just a trifle of sadness. 

As our pleasures are blended with pain. 

When the sun shines the brightest. 
Our hearts seem the lightest. 

Of life's trouble and care we have none; 
But the rough stormy weather 
Brings us closer together. 

We are lonely when God hides the sun. 

The gloom makes us more careful, 
More thoughtful, and prayerful. 

And our praying is never in vain ; 
Soon the sun will be beaming. 
We'll awake from our dreaming, 

As our lives fill with Sunshine again. 



There are treasures which we cherish, 
Memories, which can never perish, 

There are keepsakes which no gold can ever buy; 
One I treasure most of all, 
Is a page of childish scrawl; 

Tis a letter from my Baby, that is all. 

It starts out about like this : 
"Darling Daddy, here's a kiss, — 

It seems awful lonesome here without my Dad; 
Mama says you had to go. 
But you'll soon come back I know. 

Then Dear Mama, and your Girlie, will be glad. 

Now, Dear Daddy, don't forget, 
Bring a Dolly for your pet. 

And something nice for Mama, who is sick; 
I would like a lot of things, — 
Such as Santa always brings, 

But I'd rather have my Daddy come home quick." 

Now that little one is gone. 
And the pictures she has drawn 

In the letters which she wrote me long ago. 
Bring back memories, sweet but sad. 
Of the Darling I once had — 

That is why I love my Baby's letters so. 



Every village has some urchin 

Who makes all the others talk; 

You can find him without searchin' — 
He's the "black sheep" of the flock. 

He's the one who's never hurryin' 

So he'll not be late at school, 
Keeps his pa an' ma aworryin', 

" 'Fraid he's goin' to be a fool." 

Rather swim, or go a fishin'. 

Than to study books all day, 
'Til he gets the neighbors wishin' 

He'd get out, an' stay away. 

All the neighbors prophesyin' 

Awful things for such young "goats," 
Seems that all the time, he's tryin' 

To find a place to sow wild oats. 

Never seemed to have a yearnin' 
For the gloomy, blue, or sad, — 

Put in all his time alearnin' 

Things, that some folks thought was bad. 


Never did a thing "unlawful," 

Never stole, nor told a lie, 
Just cut up; and acted awful; 

'Nough to make a Christian cry. 

Ran away, 'fore he was twenty. 

No one knew which way he went; 

Folks said "he'll soon get aplenty, 
Trampin' 'round without a cent." 

That was true ; the prophets hit it. 

That's the time they guessed just right: 

If he'd been doin' wrong, he quit it — 
'Fore he started out that night. 

Struck right out, without a penny. 
But he didn't stay broke long, 

For of friends, he soon made many, 
"Strangers" didn't guess him wrong. 

To them, he didn't look the "sinner" — 

He'd been rated as a youth. 
They all picked him for a winner, 

And they hit it; that's the truth. 

This same lad, they called a "rover," 

Won fame and fortune, way out west ; 

Seems the "black sheep" finds the clover. 
And oftentimes, turns out the best. 



Oh, ye of little faith, who say 

There is no God above; 
What hope have you on judgment day, 

Wirhout a Saviour's love? 

'Tis but a little while ago 

Our Saviour Christ was here. 

He died for us, to let us know 

There's naught in Death to fear. 

The World was wicked then, as now — 
And filled with discontent; 

And by His life, He taught us how 
And why, He had been sent. 

He promised He would come again — 
With tidings from above — 

He treated us as fellow men. 
And taught us only love. 

But we have wandered from the path 
Our Precious Saviour trod; 

And openly defied the wrath 

He warned might come from God. 

But God is merciful and kind, 

Forgives a World of sin; 
But if a Home with Him you'd find — 

'Tis time you should begin. 



There's a sense of satisfaction 
When we have done our best, 

Tho we lose out by a fraction, 
When put to some hard test. 

We may not wear the laurel wreath 

Upon our sweating brow, 
But need not feel that we're beneath 

The one who wears it now. 

We tried our best to win the race, 
And used the strength we had ; 

Although we failed to win first place, 
We ran, and we are glad. 

Another, swifter than the rest, 

Outsped us from the start ; 
And while with honors he is blest. 

We were not far apart. 

We tried to win, the same as he, 
But lost through lack of force; 

When there's a winner, there must be 
A loser, too, of course. 

Tho we have not a medal bright 

To pin upon our breast, 
We're satisfied; we did just right; 

We did our level best. 



Here is health to the Lumber- Jack, 
Whose wardrobe is a grain-bag pack; 
Ready for work at break of day, 
Tho hard the task, to Jack, 'tis play. 
In nice warm suit of mackinaw. 
Working with peavey, axe and saw, 
Sleeping nights in a puncheon bunk, 
Under his head his pack-sack trunk. 
No man asks of another's past — 
That's his business, from first to last; 
Each attends to his own affairs. 
Yet each, the other's burden shares; 
Sometimes a trifle rough in speech, 
A big kind heart is found in each; 
Freely giving to those in need, 
Hating selfishness, scorning creed; 
An outlaw, gambler, thief or scamp, 
Finds no home in a lumber camp. 
Braving the storms while Winter lasts, 
Laughing at snow and chilly blasts. 
Skidding logs, with engine, or team. 
Waiting the time to drive down stream. 
This is the part which Jack loves best. 
It puts his skill to hardest test. 


With pants short-stagged below the knee, 

Rough and ready, and all care free. 

With sharp spiked boots, and peavey strong 

Riding logs as they float along 

Rifle, Eddy, or Rapids rough, 

Jack laughs, and gives his pipe a puff; 

Wet to the waist from morn 'til night, 

To keep the log raft moving right. 

The Piney North, and giant trees. 

The "Happy Home" of such as these; 

Many a Prince, with grain-bag pack, 

Leads the life of a Lumber Jack. 



When we sleep, the spirit rambles 
Out in space, we know not where ; 

Then the mind strange objects scrambles 
With the odds and ends left there. 

Visions fair, and phantom fancies, 
All come to us when we dream; 

Some of which we get but glances — 
So like meteors, they seem. 

Some distorted and fantastic. 

Seem like witches in their flight; 

For the mind is more elastic 

When relaxed in sleep, at night. 

Some like shadows dim, and mystic, 
Mirrored on a crystal lake; 

Others, are so realistic, 

They impress us when we wake. 

'Tis our day dreams which are lasting, 
Their influence never dies; 

Thru our lives, their shadows casting 
Of things dreamed with open eyes. 



To each man is given a "master key" 

To the "vaults" of his own career; 
Each "vault" is so labeled that he may see 

Which ones he may trust, or should fear; 
Both the good, and bad, their release await, 

All bad should be kept tightly sealed; 
But curiosity, man's weakest trait, 

Accounts for the bad that's revealed. 
The contents of some, are all good and pure. 

While others, rank poison contain ; 
Ere you attempt to unlock one, make sure 

It contains no sorrow or pain; 
The "master key" which you hold in your hand. 

Gives access to all you've in store ; 
Either good, or bad, are at your command. 

Choose well, before op'ning the door. 




The man who's ever willing 
To give advice away, 

Don't offer you a shilling 
To cheer a dismal day. 

He'll reel off rules to live by, 
And point out your mistakes. 

But knows no rule to give by. 
Except the talk he makes. 

Tells just how you ought to live. 
The things you must not do, 

His advice is all he'll give — 
It doesn't cost a sou. 

Never listen to his kind, 

He is just a miser; 
Strong on talk, weak in mind. 

Leaves you weak, not wiser. 


Just to give up life for death, 
Just a passing of the breath, 
Just a closing of the eyes, 
These all come to him. who dies ; 
Then a coffin, and a box. 
Sexton boosts, and neighbor knocks; 
Just a grave upon the hill — 
There to sleep where all is still ; 
Just a stone to mark the place 
Where he "finished" in the "race;" 
There his body soon will rot. 
And his lifework be forgot; 
"Dust to Dust" for mortal man 
"Finishes" the "race" he ran. 



In fancy, I'm back to the sweet long ago, — 
To the scenes of my childhood and youth ; 

When the River of Life did so peacefully flow, 
I thought every promise meant truth. 

I can see the old "cabin" that stood on the hill, 

And the "stream" in the valley below; 
I can hear the low purr of the "wheel" in the "mill," 

I heard half a century ago, 

I have watched that old "wheel" as it slowly turned round, 

Churning water to bubbles and spray ; 
It furnished the "power," by which grists were then ground, 

While the water was pounding away, 

I've stood by that "old mill wheel" for many an hour. 
And I wondered how long it would stay; 

I thought, even then, though the stream gave it power. 
That the "mill," and the "wheel," must decay; 

How true was that guess, as I review it today. 

Both the "mill," and the "wheel," now are gone; 

While the stream dances gaily along on its way, 
Giving power to wheels further on ; 

So it is with our lives; we may toil a few years, 

Drawing power from sources above; 
And we realize now, as we look through our tears, ^ 

That there's nothing eternal, but Love. 



Each soul is launched on the River of Life, 
In a craft which is made of clay; 

A river of pleasures, also, of strife. 

We will find them both on our way. 

Along the whole course are warnings which tell 

Of dangers on every side, 
If we would but heed them, all would be well, 

On smooth placid water we'd ride. 

The warnings are there to help us along. 
So placed that we all may read them; 

The warnings are right, 'tis we who are wrong, 
Because we have failed to heed them. 

We leave the channels of safety behind. 
Ignoring the warnings we've read; 

We thought we were safe, but suddenly find 
There's dangerous rapids ahead. 

We bend to the oar, and work with our might, 
Our craft on the wild waves is tossed, 

'Tis then we pray to be guided aright, 
We see how the heedless are lost. 

This River of Life leads on to a goal 

Where the good forever abide; 
In each frail craft is an Immortal Soul, 

WTiich trusts to our wisdom to guide. 



'Tis sweet to know that someone cares 

A little bit for you, 
To know you have the earnest prayers 

Of one that's good and true; 

Go where you may on land or sea 
No matter where you roam, 

There's one who'll ever faithful be — 
The one you left at home. 

A prayer is said for you each night 

Before she goes to bed. 
That you may see the shining light, 

And by it may be led. 

Where weary brain and aching heart 

May lay aside its care, 
When from this life you have to part. 

And be with her up there; 

So try and do your best each day. 

And to that one be true ; 
For she will wait and watch and pray 

That God may be with you. 



'Tis night, I'll lay me down to rest — 

Preparing for another day; 
'Tis good to know I've done my best 

In every way. 

I've watched each minute as it passed, 

I've weighed each word before 'twas said; 

The day is gone, 'tis night at last. 
And time for bed. 

Before I close my eyes in sleep, 

I'll kneel and say this little prayer; 

"May not my acts make others weep, — 
Nor have a care." 



A harmless fellow was poor "Old Doc," 
Target for many a jibe and knock; 
Not a "real" Doctor, and known to fame, 
For "Doc" was only a short nick-name. 

A handy man in the neighborhood, 
Yet they overlooked his points of good; 
His was a life with but little joy; 
An invalid wife, and a crippled boy. 

When the poor wife died, his heart was broke; 
She'd helped to carry the heavy yoke; 
His sight soon failed, from the scalding tears,- 
Caused by hardships he had borne for years. 

He had no money his debts to pay, 
So his home, by mortgage, was swept away; 
The race to the poorhouse soon was run 
By poor "Old Doc," and his crippled son. 

With broken spirit, and wounded pride. 
Poor "Old Doc" quickly weakened and died; 
In rough board box his body was sealed. 
And hustled off to the potters' held. 


Enroute to the grave, they met a man 
Who, stopping the silent caravan. 
Asked the crippled son, "Is someone dead'?" 
He answered, "That's my Father ahead." 

Funeral, or flowers, he had none, — 

His only mourner, his crippled son ; 

In "unmarked" grave, they laid him away 

To await the call, on Judgment Day, 

When the trumpet blast awakens all 
Even "Poor Old Doc" will hear the call 
And he'll smile at those who were unkind 
Saying "I forgive; so never mind." 



Why turn your eyes toward the Skies, 
When asking God to give you grace? 

He's in your heart, of you a part, 

He's Life and Love and Time and Space. 

Why are your prayers so full of cares. 
Why think of Heaven as far away? 

With conscience clear, your Heaven is here; 
And God is with you every day. 

Why do you fear, as time draws near 
To die, and leave your friends to weep? 

Cheer up, be brave, for in the grave 
The worn-out body rests in sleep. 

The Soul awakes, and new form takes, 
And other Glories it shall see ; 

So live each day, that you can say 

"This Earth has been a Heaven to me." 



I'm glad I am just who I am, 

And no one else instead ; 
For with myself I cannot sham, 

Nor by deceit be led; 
I know my weak points, ev'ry one. 

Also, where I am strong; 
Full well I know what I should shun- 
To keep from doing wrong; 
I know my habits good and bad, 

My pleasure, and my pain; 
Of many joys which I have had. 

And hope to have again ; 
All this I know of only me, — 

Of others, I must guess ; 
So I'm content to live and be 

Just me; not more, nor less. 



How much did you save while the saving was good, 

Did you put a few Dollars away*? 
And make what you spent go as far as it could, 

Or did you go broke every day"? 

You sure had a good chance while money was cheap. 

To lay up for yourself a nice bunch, 
Did you keep wide awake, or were you asleep, 

When Dame Fortune was giving the hunch'? 

While planting was good, did you plant a few trees. 
In a place you may call all your own'? 

To furnish you shade while you're taking your ease, 
When your best hustling days shall have flown ^ 

Did you make some friends as you journeyed along. 

Or were you only seeking for pelf? 
If you're friendless and broke, because you went wron^ 

You have no one to blame but yourself. 



A good Samaritan is she, — 

To spend her life relieving pain 

By being kind to you and me, 

And nurse us back to health again. 

With pleasant smile, and cheery ways, 
She scatters sunshine everywhere ; 

The hand of death she often stays. 
By giving watchful, tender care. 

From cot to cot she gently goes, 
Alert to answer faintest call. 

No partiality she shows — 

A little "Mother" to them all. 

No nobler life can Mortal lead. 
Nor greater sacrifices make, — 

Than that of Nurse ; for she, indeed. 
Gives her dear life, for mercy's sake. 



They say I'm old at Sixty years, 

That youth has passed away; 
They speak of age as full of fears, 

And note my locks of gray. 
But Time to me is very kind, 

And age not what it seems ; 
For I'm no older than my mind, 

Nor than my fondest dreams. 
'Tis not the years that make one old, 

And rob him of his youth. 
We only age when we lose hold 

Of purpose, love, and truth. 



The World is full of happiness, once you get the cue, 

Honor, fame and wealth, will come cuddling up to you; 
Be honest, patient, watchful, to noble things incline — 

Map out a life of usefulness, then stick to your line. 
Temptation will assail you, while you are on your way. 

But the frost that glistens brightest, seldom lasts a day; 
Choose with care your object, and never step aside. 

And always trust your conscience, let it be the guide. 
Climb the ladder carefully, 3^our place is at the top. 

Until you've reached the highest point, never, never 
Be generous, but careful, and happiness is thine. 

Don't envy others, nor complain, but stick to your line. 



'Tis easy enough to promise to do — 

Your intentions may be of the best — 

But the things which count with others, and you, 
Are results; for we can't use the rest. 

A promise is good as far as it goes, 

It may satisfy some for a while, 
But often when given, an ill wind blows, 

And your promise has failed by a mile. 

Don't make a promise you're not sure to meet, 
Better go without things which you crave; 

'Tis worse to be called a liar, or cheat. 
Than be known as a pauper, or slave. 

No man is quite poor, whose word is all right, 

So keep every promise you make ; 
Your dealings each day are summed up at night. 

So you better not make, than to break. 



I'd rather have my baby perched upon my knee, 
Than own the finest mansion in the land ; 

I'd rather hear it calling "Daddy dear" to me, 
Than have a million dollars at command. 

I'd rather feel it's head a-cuddle on my breast, 
Than hold the highest office men bestow ; 

For of all nature's treasures, babies are the best, 
A blessing which so many never know. 

For home without a baby, is fire, without flame ; 

And yet the homes without them are not few; 
Dearer are my babies, than fortune, power, fame, 

For "baby love" is always pure and true. 

So many homeless babies, hungry, cold, and sad. 

Would cheer the childless homes, and bring them joy 

If you've not had the pleasure of being "real" Dad, 
Then give your heart, your home, to girl or boy. 



I love the Autumn, clear and fair, 
Its piney-scented balmy air, 
With health and strength in every breeze, 
Fresh from the lakes and forest trees; 
No other time in all the year 
So full of life, and health, and cheer; 
With wondrous raiment Nature's dressed, 
'Tis then, she wears her very best; 
The hunter, with his dog and gun. 
Goes forth to have his bit of fun. 
Kind Nature knows the angler's wish. 
And gives him Autumn days to fish; 
The woods aglow with colors bright, 
A million rainbows all in sight; 
The songbird sings his sweetest tune. 
As gayly as he did in June. 
Instinctively, he seems to know 
When Autumn closes, he must go; 
And plumes his wings for Southern flight, 
When Autumn's day shall turn to night. 
A squirrel, scampers up a tree, 
Then, from the top, he watches me; 
And keeps an eye upon his store 
Where he has carried nuts galore. 


A rabbit, hopping 'long a trail, 
Scares from its hiding place, a quail ; 
Sounds, as of an auto coming. 
Prove to be a partridge drumming ; 
I love to listen, watch, and think, 
And from the fount of Nature, drink; 
A taste of Heaven 'tis to me, 
I'd revel in its ecstasy. 



Dear Lord, we come to Thee, in prayer: 
Asking Thy mercy, love and care. 
Oh, lead us back into the light. 
Show us the way to live aright; 
Forgive our sins, and make us pure, 
And shield us from the tempter's lure; 
Cast from us every evil thought. 
That we may teach, as Thou has taught. 
And thru our teaching we may be 
The "means" of bringing men to Thee. 



How well I remember, when I was a boy, 

Just a gay, happy sort of a lad, 
In forest and stream I found pleasure and joy. 

With fishing and hunting my fad. 

I loved the excitement of chasing with hounds. 

And bringing the sly fox to bay; 
Sweet music, to me, were the various sounds 

Of the forest, by night or day. 

To peek in some crevice, or crawl in a cave 
Where a coon, or wildcat, might hide. 

Were some of the pleasures which I used to crave, 
When my dog was close by my side. 

I knew every clam bed for miles around. 
Where mink and coon came to feed; 

In the hickory groves where squirrels abound 
My dog told me when one was treed. 

Well posted was I, where the fishing was best. 
Knew the bait for bullhead or bass; 

Twas seldom, 'til bedtime, that I'd take a rest, — 
Except a short nap in the grass. 

I'm back there right now, as real as can be; 

A barefooted boy at his play — 
Tho' only in fancy; 'tis pleasant to me 

To review that sweet yesterday. 



We should never judge our fellow man by superficial clues, 
If we have no facts but those in sight, we'd very often lose; 
We must never judge him, by the kind of company he's in. 
Lest we misjudge the company, which would surely be a sin. 
The eyes are windows of the soul, but often there's a curtain 
Which hides the inner rooms from view, and makes our 

guess uncertain; 
The mouth Is shaped to tell the truth, tho' many men mis- 
use It, 
And should we bank our bet on that, we are almost sure 

to lose it; 
If on the voice we would depend, this may also prove quite 

For even one with vicious mind may sing the sweetest 

song ; 
The ear, and nose, may also show some signs of noble 

But even these may change their form, and prove to be 

To judge man by the clothes he wears, would hardly ever do, 
For deft hands and the dyer's art can make old clothes 

seem new; 
If we would judge a man by these, we would often make 



For an honest man, if overdressed, a poor impression makes; 

The safest way to judge a man is, after we have tried him; 

A chance to prove he's good or bad, should never be de- 
nied him. 

Then when we've found he is all right, and have no cause 
to doubt him, 

It seems to me, 'twould be just right, to tell our friends 
about him. 



Oh what would I give, if I only could live 

My life all over again'? 

And know as I do, the false from the true, 

The causes of pleasure and pain^ 

I'd start out today in a different way 

Than was done in the dim long ago, 

And try to do good, whenever I could — 

Seeds of kindness I'd lavishly sow. 

I'd carry a smile on my face all the while, 

And have a kind word for each one; 

I'd be honest and true in whatever I'd do, 

Of bad habits, I'd surely have none. 

I'd do every hour, the best in my power 

To better the world in some way; 

And teach only good, if only I could 

Start living life over, today. 



If we had the sunshine only, 

No clouds to hide the sky, 
We'd soon be sad and lonely, 

The flowers all would die; 
We welcome, bright and sunny days — 

They always bring a smile; 
But love them best, and give most praise. 

When it has rained awhile. 
Just so, when pleasure follows pain. 

Our trouble disappears; 
The sun shines brighter after rain. 

And eyes, still wet with tears. 
The stormy days we dread so much. 

Are blessings in disguise; 
They bring our Souls in closer touch 

With things beyond the skies. 



In looking o'er my friendship list, 
I find the best was nearly missed; 
The one on whom I may depend, 
My looking glass — my truest friend. 

For when my age begins to show, 
'Tis not afraid to tell me so; 
The others let me pose and sham, 
But this one shows me as I am. 

A wrinkle here, a hollow there, 
A little streak of silvery hair; 
Altho I try to cling to youth, 
It will not lie, it speaks the truth. 

My other friends, in flattery, say, 
"You're looking younger every day." 
But if the "truth" I wish to know, 
I ask my glass, "Is this all so?" 

If they have lied, to give me cheer, 
I get the truth by coming here; 
For in its face I plainly see 
The truth, reflected home to me. 



I have a friend, tho far away, 
Of whom I think most every day; 
He went his way, and I went mine — 
He chose the Orange, I, the Pine. 

Great mountain chains between us stand, 
And desert stretches strewn with sand; 
No barriers to brotherhood. 
Which sends its message where it would. 

My path led North, his, to the West, 
We both chose what we thought was best 
Tho many miles between us lie, 
We never let our friendship die. 

I hope to meet this friend once more, 
And greet him as in days of yore ; 
To hear him say "you can depend 
On me, for I am still your friend." 



Some folks weep with fear and sorrow, 
When they find they're facin' death, 

An' they know, that 'fore tomorrow. 
They'll be partin' with their breath; 

Sumthin' 'bout it seems to scare 'em. 
Don't know whar they're goin' to; 

Then they pray to God to spare 'em, — 
S'pose 'twill be the same with you. 

When you feel the pulse a slowin'. 
An' yer eyes begin to scum, 

Then you know you must be goin' — 
Fer yer time to die has come. 

As yer fambly Stan's 'roun' waitin' 
Fer to hear yer last good-bye, 

Thar can't be no hesitatin'. 

An' you know you've got to die; 

They have called you by yer Number, 
An' they never make mistakes ; 

You have got to take the slumber — 
From which no one ever wakes. 


Better smile, an' answer "present," 
When you hear 'em call yer name, 

Fer if this life has been pleasant, 
Next one's sure to be the same. 

Now I look at this here dyin', 
As a thing we needn't fear; 

Fer the heartaches, an' the cryin', 
Comes to them yer leavin' here. 

Course I'm only sort of guessin' ; 

But I've 'bout made up my mind, 
Death comes to us as a blessin', 

'Stead of leavin' us behind. 



The way some people worry, seems to me so very strange; 

For I can pass up worry with a bluff; 
I never worry over things I'm sure I cannot change, 

For if I did, I'd worry, sure enough. 
Now what's the use to worry, over losses, great or small V 

It would not add one penny to my pile. 
So when I find I'm crowded, tight up against the wall, 

I climb the wall, and sit up there, and smile. 
Hard-luck stories are too common, we hear them every day; 

A habit formed by some, when times looked blue; 
To such I am prone to say "things are coming all my wa}^" 

Then smile, to make them think my words are true. 
The world will always listen, when it hears of lucky strikes, 

It loves a hearty laugh and cheers a song; 
But I don't know of anyone, who really, trul)^ likes 

To meet a man, who's kicking all day long. 
We all have disappointments, to test our courage, I'll agree, 

I forget them as quickly as I can; 
And never let my troubles, trouble anyone but me. 

The whole world loves to see a happy man. 



The sweetest Girl I ever knew, 

Upon whose face a broad grin grew, 

Helen Barrett, was her name; 

And 'twas her grin that brought her fame; 

Hard luck could never feaze that grin^ 

Nor take the dimple from her chin; 

No matter how things came, or went, 

She always seemed to be content; 

That little grin was ever there 

To baffle sorrow, grief or care. 

I've seen her grin when things went wrong, 

And sing a snatch of some sweet song; 

Thru sweet or bitter, thick or thin, 

She'd alwa)^s wear that little grin; 

And oftentimes when out of luck, 

I feel like passing up the buck, 

I rack my brain for some good bluff. 

And when it comes why sure enough, 

It is that little grin^ I see — 

Just itching to get onto me; 

It seems to say, when things look blue, 

"I helped poor Helen, why not you*?" 

So now I wear that grin each day, — 

It drives bad luck and blues away. 

That grin is mine forevermore, 
And I shall always wear it; 
No matter what hard luck's in store, 
I'll grin like Helen Barrett. 



Don't tell me there's no Santa Claus, 

That elves and fairies never was, 

That Mother Goose, her stories, too. 

Was a fable, and is not true; 

Also, Jack and the big bean stalk 

Was just a lot of made-up talk 

To please children, and entertain 

'Til they develop sufficient brain 

To understand, and know and feel 

The value of things, that are true and real; 

These things I learned to love in youth. 

Were real to me, and full of truth; 

While lessons learned in after years 

Were false, and bitter, and full of tears. 

Don't take away from Girls and Boys 

Elves, and fairies, and other joys 

Which cheered their hearts in Childhood's day- 

They seemed so real in every way 

And were happy, and did believe 

You'd be honest, and not deceive; 

You can't go back on it, because 

'Twas you who told of Santa Claus. 

Beside all that, there's not a man 

Can show the friends Old Santa can. 



Most all people have a yearning for the things they don't 

Which is just a common weakness of the Human Race I 

guess ; 
They imagine all the sweetness is wrapped up in one lone 

But they never get to taste it, for 'tis always out of reach. 

Of things common, they have plenty, but are never satisfied; 
They are always craving something which to them has been 

Some imagine they would like to be a Multimillionaire, 
But should they live a Million years, they never could get 

Gold and Diamonds have great value, just because they're 

hard to find. 
And being rich is only a condition of the mind I 
Maybe someone else is wishing he might stand within our 

And partake of all the blessings we ignore, or else abuse. 
We may strain our eyes in looking for the things just out of 

And, sometimes, we nearly reach them, tho we very seldom 

How happy might we Mortals be, could we but understand 
That for us the richest blessings are the ones right close at 




I've had enough of life in town — 

Put in a year or so — 
Had factory work, 'til it shut down, 

About a month ago; 
I drew big wages, for awhile, 

As far as money goes, 
Got bran' new clothes, and put on style, 

Wore shoes that hurt my toes. 
Learned how to tango, glide and trot, 

Took in the cabarets; 
Of city folks I've learned a lot, 

Also their funny ways. 
The farm was getting pretty tame, 

And wages not so high, 
I thought I'd try the city game — 

And bid the farm good-bye. 
But I have had my little fling 

At city life, and such, 
And now, feel certain of one thing, — 

It don't amount to much; 
Especially for one like me — 

Whose strength is in his arm, 
There's just one place I long to be — 

And that's back on the farm. 


I may not have so much real cash 

To fool away each night 
On cigarettes, and all such trash, 

But I'd be living right. 
These city guys who call me Hick, 

Are just a false alarm — 
Had they the means, they'd mighty quick 

Go buy a little farm. 
I'm satisfied with what I've seen — 

Tho I've not saved a cent ; 
By satisfied, I really mean 

'Twas money durned well spent. 
To those who love the city life, 

'T won't do a lot of harm; 
But I'll go back, and get a wife, 

And stay right on the farm. 



Don't take it for granted, a thing must be true, 
Because in some book you have read it, 

If it does not sound right, and seem true to you. 
Don't believe the author who said it; 

Apply this same rule to the gossiping herd, 
Who speak slighting words of each other; 

One should never take "stock" in any man's word, 
When he's knocking some absent brother; 

Discard the ideas so time-worn and stale — 

The ancestral heirlooms for ages — 
Which if tried out today, invariably fail, 

Although they were uttered by Sages. 

Three dangerous things which hold progress in check 

Are Superstition, Custom, and Fear; 
The shoals, upon which is cast many a wreck, 

Because REASON is not there, to steer. 

So cast off the things which are ancient, and stale. 

Put traditions and such on the shelf; 
Get rid of this antediluvian tale, 

And do some real thinking yourself. 



When you feel discouraged, and blue, and sad, 
And everything seems to be going bad, 
It seems every move which you try to make 
Goes wrong, just because of some slight mistake. 
All your prospects and plans have gone awry. 
You say to yourself, " 'tis no use to try" — 
Declare you're a failure, for want of luck, 
When the real cause is, the lack of pluck; 
Courage to rise, when you've taken a fall. 
Your troubles are common, they come to all ; 
You rail at your luck, and you censure fate. 
Say there's "no use trying, it is too late." 
The fact of the matter, 'tis you that's wrong; 
You sold your smile, and you pawned your song; 
The two best helpers a man ever had 
To cheer him up, when the going's bad. 
Redeem your old song, and get back your smile. 
Use them, and you will find living worth while. 
Then whispers Fortune the grand old Dame 
You're bound to win if you stick to the game 
Excuses for losing can be but few 
You can win if you try 'tis up to you. 



We seldom know the value of things until they're lost, 

Sometimes we win and lose all in a day; 
We cannot prize too highly the bridge we've safely crossed, 

We'd miss it, if we found 'twas washed away. 

We love the ones whose friendship has been severely tried. 
And proved that they were friends in every way; 

But just how much we loved them, comes to us when they've 
And we miss the loving words they used to say. 

We should daily count our treasures, and prize them one 
and all. 

And give to them our tender thoughtful care; 
Then when they're taken from us, and gone beyond recall. 

Our losses seem much easier to bear. 



I love the winter's chilly blast, 

The snow and sleety storm; 
But love them most when they have passed 

And it is nice and warm. 



I'm just a common laborer, I toil from sun to sun; 

I was not born to riches, and my duties, never shun. 

I earn my bread by labor — my portion is hard work; 

No matter what my task has been, I've never tried to shirk. 

My hands are rough and clumsy, they've never worn a 

But the heart within my bosom is full of tender love; 
I love my wife and babies and I'm sure they all love me, 
There's never cause for jealousy, we're happy as can be; 
Our food, tho' plain, is wholesome, there is plenty of it, too. 
Our clothing coarse, but always clean, our luxuries are 

few — 
By luxuries, I mean those things which gold alone can buy. 
But "love" provides us many things which gold cannot 

We have no thought of envy for the things beyond our 

But live the quiet, simple life, and practice what we preach. 
Yes, I'm supremely happy, as I labor day by day, 
We have no debts, because we live within my meager pay; 
The World says I'm a toiler, but the World's a little thing. 
Compared to wife and babies, for to them, I am a King. 



In speaking of old-fashioned things, 

I rather like the phrase; 
Because, somehow, it always brings 

To mind the bygone days. 
Recalls the friends of long ago — 

Old-fashioned friends, 'tis true, 
Yet all thru life, where'er I go, 

The best I ever knew. 
They earned their bread by sweat of brow, 

In homespun they were clad; 
The kind they term old-fashioned now. 

My kind, and I am glad. 
I've heard it said "The world's the same. 

No matter where you go," 
But in my case, I find the claim 

Misleading, for I know 
That time has changed; and some declare: 

"One must be College-bred, 
With clothes to match the eyes and hair, 

Or else he's silage-fed." 
In City life, we fail to find 

The neighbor-love we knew ; 
We miss the friends we left behind, — 

The good old-fashioned few. 



Only dim memories, are all the past years; 

Page after page, full of smiles and of tears, 

Hopes which were blasted. Dreams which came true, 

Of hardships a plenty, of pleasures a few ; 

Of days which gave promise of something worth while, 

But brought tear, and heartache, instead of a smile, 

Of battles with self, which were lost in a day. 

Of joys transitory, which came not to stay; 

Of struggles to conquer, of battles hard fought, 

Of conflicts we've won, and of others we've not. 

All now are memories, but things of the past; 

No joy, or sorrow, forever may last. 

But history tells of the weak, and the brave, 

A record of each, from cradle to grave, 

I bid you. Old Yesterdays, hearty farewell ; 

What the future holds for us, Time only can tell. 

Let us hope it may bring us only the best. 

That each new page be brighter than all of the rest. 



Some day I'll lay me down to sleep, 

And close my eyes to earthly scenes; 

I'll cross the chasm wide and deep, 
And know what eternity means. 

I have no fear of what's beyond. 

Nor claim for glory would I make; 

When called for judgment, I'll respond 
Should I awake, should I awake. 

I've never been a coward here. 

The grave can never change my plan ; 
Of what's ahead I have no fear, — 

I'll meet it bravely as a man. 

There must be something good ahead, 
A place that's free from sin and pain ; 

For of the countless Millions dead. 
Not one has come back here again. 

I am resigned to meet my fate, 

I'll make the journey all alone — 

I have no jealousy, nor hate. 

To carry to the great unknown. 


I may have been misunderstood, 

Perhaps I've sinned in Mortal eyes; 

There's few who are entirely good, 
But goodness in the motive lies. 

I've played my little part in life, 

And when my day shall turn to night, 

Thus quieting my pain and strife, 
When I awaken, give me light; 

I've groped in darkness here below, 

Not knowing just which road to take: 

But after death I'll surely know, — 
Should I awake, should I awake.