Minor punctuation errors have been corrected without notice. Printer's errors have been corrected, and the changes are listed at the end of the book. All other inconsistencies are as in the original. The author's spelling has been retained.
FREEMAN E. MILLER,
Author of "Oklahoma and other Poems," "Songs from the South-West Country," etc.
Stillwater, Oklahoma. The Advance Printing Company. 1905.
Copyright, 1905, by Freeman E. Miller. All Rights Reserved.
The Gospel of Sunshine is the one Supreme Evangel, the Religion of Love is Mankind's most Universal Creed. They hold in their divine Baptisms the Winning of the Heart to Happiness, the Wooing of the Soul to Heaven.
Beginning with June 9, 1904, there was a column of verse and prose published in "The Stillwater Advance" under the caption "Oklahoma Sunshine." These were written in the moments of a busy life, amid the crowding of sterner things, and many of them found a wide circulation in the fugitive publications of the day. So many persons have offered expressions of being pleased and helped by them that they are here presented in a more permanent form. The following comprise the year from June, 1904, to June, 1905.
A Busy Family, 4
A Blazing Future, 185
A Contented Farmer, 19
A Date With Joy, 265
A Happy Farmer, 299
A Jolly Good Game, 18
A Little of Love, 6
All Fool's Day, 249
A Memory, 232
A Modern Love Story, 276
A New Year's Resolution, 174
A Prayer, 29
April 22, 1889-1905, 269
A Song of Green Valleys, 30
At Rest, 188
A True Hero, 181
At the End, 214
At the Turning of the Lane, 289
At the Twilight, 290
At Valentine's Day, 204
A Valentine, 207
A Welcome for Winter, 97
Away from the Winter, 222
Be Patient, 116
Be Strong to Dare, 69
Best of All, 39
Better Hide Out, 129
Better Hurry, 277
Brighter than the Dreams, 286
De Hant, 190
Doing Pretty Well, 62
Don't Fall out with Life, 220
Don't Frown, 8
Don't Grumble, 5
Don't Trade with Trouble, 227
Don't Worry or Fret, My Dearie, 40
Don't You Fret, 61
Don't You Grumble, 46
Dreams, 1, 254
Evil Prophets, 173
Feelin' Fine, 71
Fields of May, 305
Fishing Time, 234
For the New Year, 166
Give Us More, 113
Get in the Game, 15
God Give Us Change, 87
Good-bye, Dear Heart, 22
Good-bye to Trouble, 158
Good Morning,—Good Night, 216
Hands Around, My Honey, 38
He Voted "Graft", 182
Hear the Song, 106
Howdy, Mister Summer, 287
If Love Abides, 277
If Santa Claus Don't Come, 162
In April Days, 260
In Prayer, 65
In Supplication, 57
In the Lap of Spring, 300
In the Light, 120
In the Orchards of Spring, 252
In the Shine, 138
In Yearning Mood, 114
Jist a-Wushin', 298
Jog Along, 9
Joy is Here, 184
June Time, 21
Just Be Patient, 223
Kansas Has her Dander up, 217
Keep Away from Trouble, 48
Keep Busy, 212
Keep in the Light, 229
Keep them Alive, 145
Life and Love, 228
Life's Way, 208
Look out for Trouble, 198
Love Brings the Song, 104
Love's Dream, 74
Minnows and Big Fish, 50
Mistah Cotton, 105
Mister Blue Bird, 239
Mister Cantaloupe, 13
Mister Ground Hog, 195
Move Along, 311
My Heritage, 284
My Philosophy, 2
Never Mind the Hills, 182
Never Worry, 142
Off the Reservation, 224
On Behalf of the Minority, 201
On the Road to Riches, 115
Our Joe's at Home Agin, 136
Playing the Game, 280
Pretty Good World, 83
Quit Grieving, 293
Rolling on to Glory, 219
Said, Governor Tom, 193
Say Good-bye to Sorrow, 241
See the Side-Show, 102
Shadow and Shine, 285
Signs of Winter, 144
Sing a Little, 172
Sing a Song of Sunshine, 128
Something Left, 184
So Santa Claus'll Come, 148
Stand Pat, 89
Still Going, 288
Still Onward, 312
Sunny Side Out, 233
Sunshine or Shadow, 253
Teddy's on a Hunting Trip, 255
Thanksgiving Hymn, 130
Thank the Lord for Work, 127
That New Year Resolution, 192
The Baby's Hand, 244
The Blossom Ways, 275
The Books, 310
The Bright Day, 81
The Call of the Fiddle, 163
The Call of the Master, 242
The Candidate, 21
The Charity Ball, 153
The Christmas Fiddles, 146
The Darky's Heaven, 49
The Days, 235
The Defeated, 102
The Glorious Fourth, 25
The Glory Train, 80
The Gods and the Man-Child, 266
The Good Times Song, 199
The Greatest Gift, 165
The Grip of the Prairies, 302
The Harvest Time, 11
The Journey, 306
The Legislative Pass, 186
The Lights of Home, 124
The Little Boy Land, 66
The Little Feet, 72
The Lord is Good to Me, 110
The Meadows of Morning, 304
The Meal Ticket Man, 134
The Negro's Warning, 37
The Rim of the Circle, 278
The Quest, 77, 285
The Quest for Joy, 93
There's No Use to Worry, 29
The Sage, 311
The Santa Claus Boy, 154
The Sunny Side, 212
The Sunshine Song, 122
The Sunshine Way, 140
The Third House, 170
The Valleys of Rest, 90
The Weather Man's Mistakes, 56
The Women and the Bill, 150
The World All Right, 86
Too Busy, 95
To One Departed, 42
To the Light, 118
To the Lonesome Fiddle, 160
To the Love Lands, 177
To the World, 78
Toss a Kiss to Care, 24
Trudge Along, 180
'Twill All Come Right, 157
Uncle Joe and Statehood, 209
Wait Awhile, 213
We Sat and Talked of Other Days, 84
What Shall it Matter, Dear, 34
When Canderdates Git After Pa, 108
When Mr. Money Comes to Town, 70
When Pa Puts Up the Stove, 132
When Teddy Squares the Deal, 264
When the Bills Come Due, 26
When the Birds Come Back, 236
When the Campaign Liar Quits, 126
When the Crow's Feet Come, 96
When the Dollar Pounds the Door, 44
When the 'Phone Bell Rings, 36
When the Roas'in' Ears air Plenty, 58
When the Sad Time Ends, 308
When Trouble Came, 196
When Trouble Comes, My Honey, 116
Where Love Abides, 228
Willie's Easter, 272
With a Song, 189
Without Embarassment, 262
You Sang to me, Dear, 296
A Doubtful Voter, 112
A Fine Job, 180
A Happy Dream, 288
A Hard Winter Ahead, 152
A Hard World, 175
An Incurable, 215
Another Vintage, 112
A Popular Preacher, 215
A Quartette of Don'ts, 176
Ate Boys Himself, 32
A Troublesome Set, 5
Caught on the Fly, 3, 7, 16, 20, 25, 33, 35, 41, 48, 55, 63, 68, 71, 73, 81, 85, 94, 98, 107, 111, 125, 128, 129, 137, 142, 156, 158, 169, 179, 183, 188, 191, 194, 208, 211, 219, 226, 246, 248, 254, 263, 268, 272, 283, 295, 297, 303.
Duly Thankful, 131
Enough Heaven for Him, 47
He has Lived in Vain, 239
Hell and Heaven, 20
His Platform, 133
If we Were Wise, 168
In the Best Society, 69
In the Legislature, 200
It Died Young, 176
Its Principal Work, 207
Life's Eternities, 234
Little Sermons, 40, 51, 83, 104, 110, 119, 120, 121, 123, 143, 145, 153, 159, 175, 181, 187, 191, 195, 206, 213, 227, 233, 235, 246, 259, 261, 274, 281, 286, 287, 289, 295.
Mighty Lonesome, 128
Nice Doctrine, 138
Nobody Hurt, 199
No Encouragement, 301
No Room for Bankruptcy, 49
Not Afraid, 185
One Drawback, 144
Play Ball, 171
Plenty of Exercise, 52
Providence Takes Care of his Own, 113
Rainy Weather, 14
Remembered by Santa Claus, 172
Richly Deserved, 232
Small Bills, 211
Snake Bit, 309
Sooner Sayings, 247, 248, 258, 259, 268, 275, 277, 288, 293, 299, 309.
The Frying Pan, 76
The Ignorance of the Court, 92
The Real Article, 53
The Real Question, 139
The Same Old Gifts, 164
The Sooners, 88
The Spirit of Compromise, 38
The Kingbolt Philosopher, 4, 10, 12, 24, 28, 33, 37, 39, 45, 61, 64, 65, 68, 82, 86, 99.
Too Much Prosperity, 159
Voting Around, 103
Wanted a Bill or Two, 197
Wanted to Hide, 121
Well Prepared, 27
Where Bill Was, 138
"What Think Ye, Masters, of These Things?"
(A POEM READ ON OKLAHOMA DAY, SEPTEMBER 6, 1904, AT THE LOUISIANA PURCHASE EXPOSITION.)
O, ye who frame the sovereign law, And heal the hurts of ocean isles Till hid are savage tooth and claw And Peace above the battle smiles,— If Justice reigns and Mercy clings, What think ye, Masters, of these things?
The Father of the Waters greets Imperial sisters proud and great, And nation mighty nation meets At festal boards of lordly state: But one—one only,—maketh moan: Denied the Star, she weeps alone!
The cycles fly on eagled wings: A hundred years have run their quest Since he who bought and sold with kings An empire added to the West: And all his regions rulers are Save her alone who mourns the Star.
The wildness in a moment died; A garden bloomed and fruited full Across the plains and valleys wide At touch of hands invincible; But mute she stands where deserts were: The banner holds no Star for her!
The race heaps high its conquered spoil; The braggart heirs of all men do Assemble where the Triumphs toil In marshaled columns for review; And she, the Starless, at your call Brings trophies that surpass them all!
Are not her laurels rich and rare? Her apt attainments great with grace? You crown her here and everywhere Save where she pleads for power and place; The world amazed her praises rings: What think ye, Masters, of these things?
She wonders wrought with wondrous hands: Her cities crowd the teeming plains, And church and school exalt the lands With all of mankind's greater gains;— The last of all the waste, she brings The triumphs of her million kings!
A million white and black and red Whose treble toils misunderstood Build happy homes and fondly wed The desert place with joyous good, And at your feet, uncrowned, unblest Kneel for the knighthood of their quest!
Thralled in her chains, this fairest one Of all the realms that greatly found Rich largess on the barrens dun Pleads from her fetters, vassal-bound; And still the Star before her swings: What think ye, Masters, of these things?
Day-dreams and play-dreams! From the rosy morn Till the ashy eventide and the stars new-born, Ever bringing life and heart aweary with their load Promises of hope and cheer while tramping down the road.
Night dreams and bright dreams! In the house of sleep With their happy faces full and their gazes deep, World on world so beautiful there they brightly bring, Till the heart is happy in the songs they sing.
Day-dreams and Night-dreams,—all the dreams you will,— Beckon up the rocky slope and summon o'er the hill,— Summon us to do and dare all the deeds of yore Till the battle ceases, and we strive no more!
I've made up my mind In spite of the cranks, 'Tis a pretty good world And we ought to give thanks; And whether it came From the God or the grime, The fellow that runs it Don't lose any time.
I've made up my mind In spite of the tears. That the world clambers up With the roll of the years; And whether it gropes Or is led on and on, It will come by and by To the meadows of dawn.
In spite of the sin And the folly around, 'Tis a much better place Than the fore-fathers found; And in spite of the fools And the devils that grieve I'm sure in no hurry To pull up and leave.
So shut up your mouth And don't grumble nor croak; Go put your poor head And your poor heart in soak; Lay all of your sorrows And sins on the shelf, For the world is all right If you're all right yourself!
Caught on the Fly.
If the girl with a white muslin dress and a picture hat has any troubles in this world she has a wonderful skill in hiding her real feelings.
Somehow, those men who are all the time telling how well money talks, never get well enough acquainted with it to speak with authority.
"De worst objection to de wortersmillion in Oklahomy," said a Mississippi black man, "is de fact dat it gits ripe too late fer de wheat harvest an' too yarly fer de cotton-pickin."
The average man grieves more when he runs out of chewing tobacco and the nearest neighbor who uses the filthy weed is three miles away, than he does when the mortgage takes the farm. Upon what little things doth happiness depend!
A Busy Family.
Mam's at a function where you hold your breath; Liz has got a feller, an' she's talkin' him to death; Andy has the measles, Susie's nussin' Bill, Pap is out fer office an' he's runnin' fit to kill; Pont an' me are fishin', all the signs are right, Fer the crick is up a-boomin' an' the big fish bite!
The Kingbolt Philosopher.
"Ive heerd tell," said Uncle Ezra Mudge, "thet every dog has his day. But I'm jest as sartin thet he don't know he's a havin' of it when he has it.
"Now, thar was Bill Smith. Bill was a high-up chap, made money, had a rubber-tired buggy, four girls, and chawed terbacker thet cost a dollar a pound. But he never knowed he was a havin' of his day ontell he went busted on the Board of Trade. But now Bill knows it, and has knowed it ever sence he went busted."
What's the use to grumble, what's the use to fret, 'Cause the cotton's weedy and the days go wet? 'Tis the Lord that sorts the weather and the sun and rain to you, And you needn't kick and holler 'cause he don't explain to you! When it rains, don't get to mopin! There's more sunny skies than clouds, And if sorrows drop in singly, why, the pleasures come in crowds; Black day or bright day, don't you fume and fret, When the cotton's weedy and the days go wet!
A Troublesome Set.
"Dese hyar white folks am a troublesome set," said a Guthrie coon. "We hab a great majority ob de city, but on 'lection day we nebber git ober half the city council an 'de school board, and four drinks apiece. We am a-talkin' of sendin' 'em back to Englan' whar dey belong ef dey don't do better!"
A Little of Love.
With a little of Love, Dear, and something of Song, There's a glorified courage that conquers each wrong, And the years fly as swift as the bird on the wing Through the snow days of winter and rose days of spring.
With a little of Love, Dear, and something of Song, There's no hour that is heavy, no day that is long; And the soldier of hope scales the mountains that meet, Till they lay all their trophies and gifts at his feet.
With a little of Love, Dear, and something of Song, All the mighty exalt, all the feeble are strong, And the breast bravely bares to the breast of the foe, And, forever full armored, gives blow for his blow!
Then a little of Love, Dear, and something of Song! What shall matter the struggle with error and wrong? For the lilies and roses of gladness shall bloom Till we sleep the long slumber as dust in the tomb!
Caught on the Fly.
It's no use to try to trot in a race where you are out-classed. Better be a good weed-puller at so much per pull, than a member of the legislature without any pull at all.
If a woman's hair is smoothed up, her hat on straight and her belt all right behind, the other cares and responsibilities of this life sink at once and forever into insignificant nothingness.
This thing of "hitching your wagon to a star" may be all right for a steady occupation, but the fellow who plants garden truck in his back-yard nights and mornings will have more on the table at meal-times.
Don't frown! In the world's market place, For a scowl there's no price, And a long, gloomy face Never cuts any ice! Look pleasant, look pleased, Or as pleased as you can;— With a smile can be seized All the great things of man! Don't frown!
Don't frown! With a smile on your lips You can reach to the end Of the world's last eclipse Or the heart of a friend; And the things the gods throw Over life's weary mile, Are the gifts they bestow In return for a smile. Don't frown!
Don't frown! As you walk down the way Where the world scatters chaff, Light your labors with play And your griefs with a laugh! And when it's all o'er And you reach heaven's stile, You will get through the door If you carry a smile! Don't frown!
Jog along, my brother, Jog along, I say; There's no cozy corner For one that wants to play; Don't stop to whistle,— Whistle good and strong, But be careful that you always Jog along.
Jog along, my brother, Jog along, I say; Keep yourself in motion,— You needn't stop or stay; Someone will hear you And will help your song, If you do your part and always Jog along.
Jog along, my brother, Jog along I say, Doing God good service Till the final day; For He will crown you After all the wrong, With his choicest blessings, if you Jog along.
The Kingbolt Philosopher.
"There be some things," says Uncle Ezra Mudge, "that it is best to take on faith. I don't know for certain that the devil has split hoofs and a forked tail and carries a four-tined fork along with him in the hope of finding a hay-field handy; but rather than make a private appointment with him to find out, I am willing to take the word of the picture books on the subject."
Whatever weaknesses he may have, the man who is so thick-skinned that he can go on about his regular business and pay no attention to the little distractions of this life, has a great advantage in the world. The rhinoceros would not look well in a beauty show, but it can always sleep well, even if hundreds of mosquitoes are buzzing around hunting for a full meal.
Spring is that season of the year when the new plow-boy and the old plow-mule patiently learn again the world-wide difference between "haw" and "gee."
The Harvest Time.
The harvest time is over! And across the fertile plain Stand the winrows of the meadows and the stocks of golden grain; And the aching limbs of labor take the rest of happy ease From the scorching suns of noon-day in the shadows of the trees.
The harvest time is over! And the husbandman receives For the days of hard endeavor all the wealth of garnered sheaves;' And the land of hill and valley smiles exalt with joys untold Heaping high above the stubbles in the piles of ripened gold!
Harvest time! Harvest time! Hours of toil are told; Hill and valley both rejoice With their wealth of gold!
The harvest time is over! After all the years of strife There's a joy for every sorrow and a crown for every life; And the songs of Heaven's angels on the straining soul arise As the weary foot-steps falter on the walks of Paradise.
The harvest time is over! All the struggle has surcease! After life, the stars above us! After battle, love and peace! And the glories of achievement that atone for sin and strife Are the sheaves of good we garner as we reap the fields of life!
Harvest time! harvest time! Years of struggle gone, Joy shall crown the soul with light In eternal Dawn!
The Kingbolt Philosopher.
"Fer accumulatin' much experience in a short while and in a rapid manner," said Uncle Ezra Mudge, "thar is nothin' under the sun beats a-goin' to law. With only a toler'ble fair case and a good lively lawyer on the other side, a man can git enough out of one single law-suit suitably appealed, to decently equip a whole neighborhood fer at least three generations."
Hello, Mister Canteloupe, When did you arrive? Glad to see you, and I hope That you're all alive! How-dy do and how-dy do! Hope your folks are well, And are coming after you For to stay a spell!
Hello, Mister Cantaloupe! Please excuse my smile, But I'm just so glad, and hope You will stay awhile; Put 'er here and put 'er there! If you've traveled far, Come with me and take a chair In the dining car!
Life is neither comedy nor tragedy, but sometimes it pushes up so close to both that it keeps a fellow on the dodge between smiles and tears.
Our Mud Creek correspondent sends us the following items, having to do with the recent wet weather:
"Bill Hughes cut his wheat last week. He rigged up a header attachment to a row-boat, and nipped the heads off at the surface of the water.
"It rained so fast last Saturday night at Tad Wilson's that the water couldn't all run off the roof of his new house. The water stood four inches deep on top of the comb for over half an hour. Then Tad took an ax and sharpened the comb so it would split the drops better, and the water soon ran down.
"Jem Bilkins' incubator hatched last Wednesday during the heavy rain. Jem set only Plymouth Rock eggs; but, when they hatched, over half of his chickens were ducks. They were given web feet by an accommodating providence."
Get in the Game.
Get in the game of life, my boy, Get in the mighty game; There'll be something of care and somewhat of strife And something of sin and shame! But after the years and the toils they bring, There'll be a time of joy, If the heart stays sweet and the soul can sing, So get in the game, by boy.
Got in the game of life, my boy,— That is the game for all; For the hazards are sweet and the days are rife With the fortunes that rise and fall; But after the losses the triumphs stand Enemies can't destroy; So get in the game with a full, clean hand, So get in the game, by boy.
Get in the game of life, by boy! That is the game men play, And whether it's gladness or whether it's strife, It lasts to the One Great Day; The crowns and the stars and the laughs of love Beckon with hands of joy, Till the soul grows vast in the home above,— So get in the game, my boy!
Caught on the Fly.
My son, this world has so much work to do that it has not even room for a lazy man to sit down and rest. The hen that doesn't lay, the horse that balks, and the cow that refuses to give down her milk, don't get up to the feed-rack very long.
The Athletic Clubs are always inventing some new way of giving a big strapping cub an adequate form of exercise, but the average farmer finds more kinds of it than he wants when the crab grass gets busy.
It isn't every dude that wears patent leathers and parts his hair in the middle, who hasn't sense enough to flag the bread-wagon when it comes tearing down the pike.
Let those who prefer it Keep hatching their schemes, But all through life's summer I'll cherish my dreams! Go on with your struggles, Your worries and wrongs; I'll camp with the lillies And list to their songs.
I'll dream with the daisies That sweeten the sod; I'll dream with the roses That whisper of God; I'll dream with the wild birds That sing of the right, And out of the shadows Dream garlands of light.
I'll dream through the darkness Of sorrow and strife, Till love brings the morning And laurels the life; And over the meadows My happy feet roam, Still dreaming, still dreaming, Till Love takes me home!
A Jolly Good Game.
You may talk as you please about Life's necromancy;— 'Tis a journey of smiles or of tears as you fancy— For I always have found,—and I'm happy to say it,— 'Tis a jolly good game if one knows how to play it!
The Dealer sits yonder,—the hands that he serves us— The brains and the beauty and courage that nerves us,— And strength for the struggle; and then he gives warning, To play to the ceiling till dawn of the morning!
And mighty the stakes that he sets us to try for! Fame, Fortune and Honor, and Love, that men die for! The Sword, or the Crown, or the Star, or the Garter, And all the high winnings men bargain and barter!
He deals us the hand,—and no one may discard it! The game must go on with no power to retard it! And whether the hand be a good one or bad one, He asks of us only to play it a glad one.
Then let people talk about life as they see it; You can make it for you what your heart may decree it; For I always have found—and I'm happy to say it,— 'Tis a jolly good game if you know how to play it!
A Contented Farmer.
Wheat-crop heapin' in de shock, Corn jes' keeps a-bumpin'; Oats a-yallerin' in de sun,— Cotton des a-jumpin'! Millet, Kafir-corn an' cane Bust their selves a-growin'; Oklahoma's home for me Till Gabriel goes to blowin'!
Hell and Heaven.
"Doan't tell me dat hell am away off yander," said an old darkey as he stood before the display window of the vegetable market where a dozen water-melons, the first of the season, reposed in unconscious temptation. "Dem millyuns cost a dollar apiece, an' I hain't got but thirty cents ter save me from the bad place. Go 'way, man! I tell you hell am right hyar, an' hebben only sebenty cents away!"
Caught on the Fly.
Of course, it is all right to aim high, but it's the fellow that never shoots at all that fails to bring down the game.
After all, the alleged failures of life are not of much importance. It is what one does with his failures that tells the story of his despair or hope.
When a man is always dressed and has his boots on ready for the journey, Opportunity comes along in her automobile and invites him to get in and ride with her.
Pleasures fond are singing, Love, for you and me, And the moments bringing Joys of land and sea!
June-time is tune-time! Don't you hear the song? All the time is love time Where the roses throng!
Don't you sigh or sorrow! Raptures full and free Crown each glad tomorrow, Sweet, for you and me!
June-time and tune-time, Where the roses throng, Life-time and love-time And the world of song!
He's getting so busy, he makes the world dizzy, His smoke can be seen from afar; He kisses the babies and flatters the ladies And gives the old man a cigar!
Good-bye, Dear Heart.
Good-bye, Dear Heart! I go my own sad way, And you go yours, and Life is agony; And yet I must not weakly beg you stay, In spite of all your absence means to me.
Though distance part, though sky and sea divide, To you I must not reach detaining hands; The years are many and the world is wide, And Love's fair roses bloom in many lands.
With all the joys and all the wishes fond My soul sends after you, we can't regret; The raptures wait us in the sweet Beyond, And we shall teach our memories to forget.
We meet no more! The hand-clasp and embrace, The hot, mad kiss, the crush of lips to lips, The melt of eye and tender flush of face,— These all for us have passed to last eclipse.
So, good-bye, Dear! Good-bye for evermore! Adown the years our halting feet shall press, Our lone hearts wander, till the quest is o'er, And Love shall lead us back to happiness!
The Kingbolt Philosopher.
"I've knowed some mighty fine scholars in figgers," said Uncle Ezra Mudge, "that never could calkilate the problem of human life. Purty near every feller when he gets to figgerin' on it, tries to git the Almighty Dollar fer the answer, and it won't figger out. I've seen lots of men in my time an' I never seed one yit that money made happy. An' if happiness ain't the answer to all this here figgerin' an' foolin' an' fightin', then I give it up.
"I'd ruther have Myrandy sing 'Ole Fokes at Home' when I'm lonesome like than to hev $10 Williams layin' around all over the place. It's more comp'ny to me, a whole lot more!"
Toss a Kiss to Care.
Toss a kiss to Care, and say, "You are only for a day"; You with all your woes and tears Never linger through the years.
Toss a kiss to Care, and be Happy in your ecstasy; Bid your grief begone, and smile With the pleasures for awhile!
Caught on the Fly.
The bass-drum is all right at the head of the procession, but the still-hunt cuts the most ice in politics.
The up-to-date dude, a-sport with patent-leathers and a Panama hat, puts on lots of style, but he began life as a bald headed and bare-foot boy along with the common herd.
Whenever you see an old maid who giddily shies off from the croup when the little folks grow wheezy, you can put it down as a sure sign that she is trying to conceal her age.
The Glorious Fourth.
Sister got her new hat wet, An' her white dress fair; Mother got a cannon-crack 'Sploded in her hair; Pap got powder in his face Shootin' anville thayre; Billy got an' ear tore off, Sammy lost an eye; Got two fingers broke myself, Fourth o' ole July!
When the Bills Come Due.
There are many things that bother In this mixed up world of ours, And the paths we wander over Are not always filled with flowers; While some days are bright and sunny There are others black and blue,— And the day that brings the trouble When the bills come due!
When the bills come due, After all the debts accrue, O, it's all another story, When the bills come due!
We blow in without a falter For most every thing in sight, From the dawn of Monday morning Till the dark of Sunday night; And we dinner on the dainties, Robe in garbs of gorgeous hue, But it's all another story When the bills came due.
O, we chase the rounds of travel, On a cruise from shore to shore, And no diff'rence what we purchase Still we always buy the more; It's a barter every minute, Till possessions large accrue, But the clouds come down with darkness When the bills come due!
When the bills come due, After all the debts accrue, O, it's all another story, When the bills come due!
"How are you getting on, Mose?" asked an anxious creditor of an impecunious colored farmer.
"Wull, boss, pickin's kinder slim erroun' de cabin jes' now, but I'm a livin' in hopes. I've got two yakers er cotton's dat's middlin' fine, an' ten yakerser worter-millyuns dat am de bes' I ever see; an' ef I doan't git er millyun yakers er hebben dis fall, I miss my guess mighty bad!"
The Kingbolt Philosopher.
"Thar's nuthin' in all this world so dog-cheap ez advice," said Uncle Ezra Mudge. "I've give my seven boys enough advice off an' on to fix over the world an' finish up Heaven, an' 'en they don't know enough to let cigarettes alone, even. Thar's nuthin, arter all, that teaches a boy so quick es a lickin.' When he gits lammed all ter pieces by some kid thet he kep' a-pickin' at till good natur' fergot ter be a vartue, an' pasted him several between the eyes, he may not look so purty but he will know two or three things so blamed well he'll never fergit 'em ontell Gabriel blows his conk shell in the mornin'!"
* * * * *
Life may be One Grand Sweet Song but we are generally furnishing the music by pounding the bass-drum for the fellow who is pounding the bass-drum for us.
* * * * *
"Love's young dream" may be the sweetest thing in life, but there is nothing like pork gravy and hot biscuit for sticking to the ribs.
"There's No Use to Worry."
There's no use to worry, When trouble appears, For she leaves in a hurry And bottles her tears; There's a song for each sorrow, A smile for each grief, And the joys of tomorrow Bring happy relief.
There's no use to worry! This world's a good place, If you fly from its flurry And keep a bright face; There is never a sorrow That sickens the soul, If you wait for the morrow And let the cares roll!
Lord, as I journey down the way, Grant me good work for every day, And, till my labor here is past, To work with Thee until the last!
Words are poor vehicles for the carrying of thought. The glance of only one bright eye can tell a sweeter story than was ever written out in all the books of men.
A Song of Green Valleys.
A Song of Green Valleys,—the valleys new born With the gold of the wheat and the green of the corn, Where the roses arise from the dews of the night And the paths for Love's feet are a-swoon with delight!
The Voice of the Valleys! The brooks to the seas Mingle multiplied praises with Love's lullabies, And the shouts of glad children exultingly rise From the daisies of earth to the stars of the skies.
The calm of the Valleys! The raptures increase With the calls of content and the pleasures of peace, And the homes of the happy their gladness engage From the rose-days of youth to the snow-days of age.
The bliss of the Valleys! There life blossoms sweet, And the night-time and noon time in melody meet, Till the sorrows that sadden the care-clouded day Find the smiles ever beaming and vanish away.
A Song of Green Valleys! O, joys that they bring Where the breeze whispers love in the love-days of spring, And the songs of the thrush from the love gardens float With the music that spills from the mocking-bird's throat!
A Song of Green Valleys! O, valleys that spread From the croon of the babe to the dirge of the dead, Beyond the long journey we leave you,—but then, God grant we shall meet you and have you again!
Ate Boys Himself.
He was a four year old Oklahoma Fountleroy, in knee pants, and with golden curls that would make an angel envious. His face still wore the divine beauty of the cradle, and his large, luminous eyes reflected an innocence unspotted of the world.
But the carpenter on the building did not appreciate his company. He was always in the way. So the carpenter thought he would frighten him away, by a story of horrible danger.
"Do you see that big man coming there?" said the carpenter to him.
The child nodded assent.
"Well," continued the carpenter; "you would better run away before he gets you. That big man eats a boy for breakfast every morning, and he may eat you."
A look of ineffable scorn slowly penetrated beneath the curls. The large, innocent eyes took on an expression of supreme contempt. Then the angel indifferently said:
"I ate a boy once; he was a nigger!"
Caught on the Fly.
A drummer is known by the stories he tells.
Don't be in a hurry to do a mean thing. You'll have plenty of time to get sorry if you put it off until day after tomorrow.
When a man stops to count the cost of a noble deed, temptation has already stormed and captured the fortifications of his honor.
The $1 bill is a very popular brand among the people, but if history makes no mistake, it takes the $1,000 bill to secure votes in the Missouri legislature.
The Kingbolt Philosopher.
"I notice," said Uncle Ezra Mudge, "Thet the self-made man is always kept so busy tellin' about the fine job of work he turned out, thet he never has time to get the roof on an' the doors an' winders hung. A self-made feller generally shows a rough job put together with dull tools an' in mighty poor taste when you git to lookin' at it real clost, an' it could be mightily improved on by a middlin' sight of polishin', wood-filler an' hard-oil, well rubbed in!"
"What Shall It Matter, Dear?"
What shall it matter, Dear, how goes the weather.— We with our hands and our hearts linked together,— We with our faces, till daisies we're under, Set to the skies with their welcomes of wonder.
What shall it matter, Dear, how goes the battle? Something is greater than all of its rattle, Something that gladdens the heart with the story Telling of Love and Love's infinite glory.
What shall it matter, Dear, how the world use us? 'Tis but a show and its antics amuse us! World that knows nothing of all our sweet gladness And of the love that dispels every sadness!
What shall it matter, then, what shall it matter? Peace still awaits after all of earth's clatter! Peace still awaits, all our love-dreams adorning, There in the bliss of the Glorified Morning!
Caught on the Fly.
Life's experiences are very much the same as when we go fishing. The biggest fish always gets away. But even then we have a pretty good feast on the minnows.
Yesterday is life's departed king; tomorrow holds all the possibilities of clown and emperor. Only today wears the glittering crown and the purple robes of power.
Don't pray for what you want, and quit with the prayer. Spit on your hands and grab it as it hurries by.
The lawn-mower is quite a play thing for the city-bred man, but in the interest of humanity he ought to be vaccinated against the back ache.
"When the 'Phone Bell Rings."
It's no difference what you're doing, Whether you're asleep or ain't, When the 'phone begins pursuing It will catch you,—no complaint! For its call is strong and steady, And it always answer brings, For you hurry with your "ready!" When the 'phone bell rings!
O, it interrupts your vision With its long, unceasing howl; It dispels your dreams elysian With insistence fresh and foul! O, it summons you at meal-times With a joy that stays and clings, Till you swear it's always de'il-times When the 'phone bell rings!
It's no matter where you're straying,— In the garden, barn or bed, There's no time to spend in praying. Or in playing, quick or dead; And if Gabriel "in that morning" Wants a good old trump that swings, Just let "central" sound his warning While the 'phone bells rings!
The Negro's Warning.
Doan't yuh grumble, brudder! Doan't yuh nebber doubt it, Debbil gwine ter git yuh 'Foh yuh think erbout it! Put yuh in de iurn-works Whar de sinnah weeps, Loadin' up de injines Shovelin' coal fer keeps!
The Kingbolt Philosopher.
"I've often noticed," said Uncle Ezra Mudge, as he slowly filled his Missouri meerschaum with Virginia twist,—"I've offen noticed thet nerve is the most vallyble asset in the credit items of human life. The pore man thet's got a plenty of it is an uncrowned king with pears's an' di'monds at his command, but the king thet lacks it will soon be uncrowned too. When a rich man er a famous man gits down in the mouth onct an' loses his nerve, it's all day with him in a minnet, an' a rope or a six-shooter ginerally winds him up. But if a feller hangs on to his nerve, he is alright fer the sights and scenes of this world an' he needn't be nussin' any worries 'bout the next one."
"Hands Around, My Honey."
Sparrow on the wagon-shed, Chirping with a will; Robin in the cherry-tree Warblin' fit to kill! Every thing's rejoicin', Hidin' of the wrong,— So hands around, my honey, And we'll join the song!
Mock-bird on the chimney top,— How that rascal mocks,— Spillin' songs of melody, From his music-box! Over all the live-long place All the pleasures throng, So hands around, my honey, And we'll join the song!
The Spirit of Compromise.
"I done heah dat de dimmycrats kinder comp'omised at de St. Looey convention meetin'," said old Black Mose. "I tell you, man, dat com'p'omisin' bis'ness am a great thing, suah! My ole woman en' me hez quahled en' fit en' fussed erroun' fer nigh fohty yeahs ober wheddah I should pack in de watah er chop de wood, en' we fin'ly comp'omised de mattah by hur a doin ob 'em bofe!"
Best of All.
Pie-million, cantaloope; Musk-million tall; But de blessed worter-million Am de bes' of all! Whar de worter-million grows, Hebben's dar bechune de rows!
The Kingbolt Philosopher.
"It hain't so much difference what kind of work you do as how you do it," said Uncle Ezra Mudge. "The feller thet sets around an' kicks on the kind of a job he has never gits many others offered him, while the chap thet does good work at whatsumever he gits giner'ly finds a ladder to climb up to the top.
"I reckon David out there herdin' the sheep never kicked much on his job, an' I'll bet four 'coon-skins thet he wuz the best sheep-herder in all the Promised Land, er the Lord wouldent a-picked him out an' set him to work at the job of bein' king."
Where the world is going is not of much consequence. It's where you are going that cuts the ice.
When the sermon gets over thirty minutes long, the Devil comes to church and takes a seat in the Amen corner.
Heaven is in every man's easy reach, but some are too contrary to even tip-toe for the blessings of the other Kingdom.
"Don't Worry or Fret, My Dearie!"
Don't worry or fret, my dearie! The shadows will soon go by; Before half your tears have vanished The sun's in the happy sky; There's trouble enough, my dearie, In days of a glad life long, But Sorrows will die with no one to sigh With Love and a little of Song!
There are some things about "our island possessions" which will bear imitation this hot weather. The costumes Of the Igorrotes, for instance.
Caught on the Fly.
Mr. Knowing How commands a princely salary while Hard Work is on the bum hunting for wages.
Some people are so anxious for happiness that they make themselves miserable in running it down.
Whether we learn much in the school of experience or not, we all register for the full term and pay the entire tuition mentioned in the catalogue.
Charity is something of which the mills of human life never turn out an over-production. Even some of the blessed saints could use a little more in their daily walk and conversation.
All the path is dark with shadows And the road is hard to see, But there's sunshine on the hill-tops And that's the way for me!
There are many blessings in this world, but a shade-tree at the end of the cotton row, and a water-melon cooling in a seventy-foot well are two of its greatest joys.
To One Departed.
This life, Dear Heart, seems all so small and mean Since thou art gone,—its prizes vague and vain, Its efforts fruitless and its glories lean, And all its heaped-up treasures worthless gain!
Amid them all my slow feet wander lone,— My heart cries hopeless for its perfect mate; The fancies murmur and the longings moan For thee whose absence leaves me desolate.
Yet, somewhere, somehow, in the years that shine With God's perfected wisdom throned above, I know thou wait'st my coming, with divine Enraptured welcomes of supremest love.
The Vision beckons, and I fix my gaze Unchanging to the promise of the skies: The full fruition of these lonely days Dwells in the heaven of thine angel eyes!
What matter, Dear, though dullard thousands throng And jostle rudely at Life's holy feast? The dull ears hear no tender strains of Song, And they that know Love best know Love the least.
And still with yearning hands that longing grope And straining eyes that search to pierce the doom, I creep the path-ways of my only Hope, And seek the Loved One passed beyond the Gloom!
When the Dollar Pounds the Door.
It's no matter how exclusive Men may be in social ways, And how uppishly their manners Every one of them displays: Born to home-spun or the purple, Very rich or very poor, They're at home to every caller When the Dollar pounds the door!
They may dwell in stately mansions With extensive yards and grounds; They may run their automobiles And play golf through all the rounds; But within their mountain villas Or resorts by ocean shore, They're at home to every caller When the Dollar pounds the door.
Whether in the humble station Or the mighty seats of state, Eating crusts to banish hunger Or a-feast on fruits of fate,— There's no one who's found forgetting That great lesson taught of yore, For they're home to every caller When the Dollar pounds the door.
Mister Dollar, Mister Dollar! You have such a winning way, That I'd like you in the fam'ly Every hour of every day! And no matter where I'm staying, Please break in with rush and roar For I'm always glad to see you, Mr. Dollar, at the door?
The Kingbolt Philosopher.
"I've wunder'd through this vale of sunshine for about sev'nty years," said Uncle Ezra Mudge, as he filled his Missouri meerschaum for the twentieth time, "an' I never yit seen a feller thet amounted to shucks who wuz allus a-hangin' on to someone else. The pore soul thet hain't got enough git up an' git to him to strike out fer hisself an' find a path of his own through the woods is mighty nigh sartin to git lost in the brush.
"Purty nigh ev'ry feller I ever knowed thet did anything wuth while did it by usin' the climbers on his own legs. Ef he stan's 'round waitin' to borry somebody else's tools, he wastes a mighty sight of his own time an' don't know how to use 'em when the other feller gits ready to be accommedatin'!"
Don't You Grumble.
Don't you grumble at the weather when the clouds are hanging flat, For the sun will soon be shining and you'll have to growl at that, And before in working order you your growler well have got, You will have to change its focus for another kind of shot!
Don't you grumble at the fortune that the Fates incline to send! If it's good, rejoice with gladness; if it's bad, why, make it mend; And before you hit the gravel for the world beyond the years, Things will balance pretty even through the tangled smiles and tears.
Don't you grumble at the meanness that heaps up your path with wrong! There are golden hearts of goodness that are full of love and song, And along the ways you wander all their anthems ever rise Like a chorus of the angels from the mansions in the skies!
Don't you grumble at the weather! Don't you growl around at fate! In this world of life and labor, you must fish or cut the bait; And if here you're always fretting o'er each little sob and sigh, You will hardly relish heaven when you reach the Bye and Bye.
Enough Heaven for Him.
"Go 'way, man!" said an obsarvant Logan county darkey. "Doan't yuh come en talk to me erbout gittin' rich er bein' pooah! Nary one ob dem things bodders me. Ef perlitical campaigns'll jes' las' all de time en canderdates run all de yar roun', dis worl'll be hebben ernuff fer me!"
"Keep Away from Trouble."
Keep away from trouble,— Keep away, I say! He will double, double, If you walk his way; Go the other path-way; Pass the rascal by; Keep your face a-smiling For the glory-sky!
Caught on the Fly.
The man that can't find any heaven in this world of sunshine has no promise of getting a chance to hunt for it in the next.
David said in his haste that all men are liars; and the Good Book does not record that he took it back after he had plenty of time to think it over.
The sublime faith that moves mountains and conquers kingdoms is frequently helpless and hopeless against the clatter of a garrulous tongue.
The Darky's Heaven.
I sho'ly doan't know Whut soht ob a place Dat de Lawd's fixin' so Foh his own culled race; But ef he "in dat day" Wants de dahkeys ter catch, Give 'em banjoes ter play In a big millon patch!
Millon patch thet's so long Dey can nevab git cross it, En a feller not strong Jes' purtendin' ter boss it; Whar nebber's a dog Ter molest whut yuh swipe, En wharebber yuh jog All de millons ah ripe!
No Room for Bankruptcy.
"Things ah sholy lookin' up ahroun' de cabin dese heah days!" said the jubilant darkey. "With watah-millons crowdin' de cohn-rows full, de cotton laid by, en fohty canderdates runnin' foh office, de bankrup'cy cou't am moah den foh hund'ed miles away, shuah!"
Minnows and Big Fish.
In the happy days of childhood, By the river's rushing tide, Where the crystal waters murmured Over all the ripples wide, It was perfect joy to angle Through the spring time's laughing day Though we only caught the minnows And the big fish got away.
'Twas no matter how we waited, How we watched with anxious eyes,— For the finny tribe to yield us Captures of enormous size; There was always disappointment Filling us with deep dismay, For we only caught the minnows And the big fish got away!
And it's much the same in manhood! As we line the stream of life, Fishing for the fame and fortune In the waters full of strife, It's no matter how we angle As the young years turn to gray, We can only catch the minnows And the big fish get away!
But the sport, the sport, is royal, And it never had a match! So it's really unimportant As to what we lose or catch! Let us use our highest efforts Till the Father calls to say: "What a splendid mess of minnows Though the big fish got away!"
Christianity and religion are great things, but a holy life knocks the spots off them both in the long run.
Wealth comes from toil and sacrifice, but the treasures of the heart are vaccinated with love and are the parents of all real happiness.
There is no use to spend any time in worrying about the next world. Take care of the world you have, and the next one will take care of itself and you, too.
It's better to whistle than cry, brother, It's better to whistle than cry; The day may be gloomy and dreary And black with the storms of the sky; But whistle your heart to the sorrows! They'll smile as they hurry you by! It's better to whistle than cry, brother, It's better to whistle than cry!
Plenty of Exercise.
"Mary Jane," said Farmer Jim to his wife as he pondered over the letter just received from their boy Silas who was away at College; "Mary Jane, what does Si mean about all this 'tarnal athletic business he's a-talkin' of?"
Mary Jane had been a school-teacher before she married Farmer Jim, and so she quickly explained:
"Why, he means dumb-bells and Indian clubs and trapezes and such things, to give exercise to the boys, father."
"Wull, I'll be dumb-belled ef I had him out yander in the cottonfield a-choppin' out the crab-grass, I guess he'd git all the exercise he wanted!" snorted Farmer Jim.
"Away With the Sorrow."
Away with the sorrow, The troubles and tears! We'll laugh with the morrow Through all of the years.
Away with the errors That scourge as a rod! Our sins and our terrors Shall vanish with God.
The sob of our sadness Shall cease bye and bye; Away to the gladness,— We're bound for the sky.
The Real Article.
"Doan't yuh talk ter me erbout yoh tahrpin en clam-bakes en yoistah fries!" exclaimed a recently arrived Guthrie coon. "Des' gib me sweet-'taters smotahed in 'possum gravy en all baked brown like we uster hab 'em down in ole Mississip! Go' way, niggah! Dat wuz high-libben like de real ahticle, I done tole ye!"
The Bright Side.
The bright side! The bright side! In spite of wind and snow, The summer comes in beauty and buds and blossoms grow, And whatsoe'er the fortune that brings the rose or rue, A kindly Heart in heaven is taking care of you!
The bright side! The bright side! Through all the hours of night, The holy stars are watching you with sentinels of light, And no matter how the sorrows may darken all the day, The pleasures come in legions and drive their ghosts away.
The bright side! The bright side! Though disappointments throng, Sweet labor lifts the burden and satisfies with song, And after all the sadness that shades the rugged life, There's glory for the struggle and slumber for the strife.
The bright side! The bright side! The side that's always there Across the ways I wander and all the paths of care; No matter what the darkness, the storm of land or sea, The bright side still is shining, and that's the side for me!
Caught on the Fly.
Don't cry over spilled milk. Tie up another cow, and try it again.
Don't trail over the world hunting for happiness with a candle, when the sunshine Of God's mercy is over every thing.
Who can understand the deeps and heights of another's nature? Nay, who can measure and comprehend even his own?
Four-tined forks are splendid implements in the hay-field, but any fork is a mighty poor thing to impale the gorgeous bliss reposing in a ripe water-melon's ruddy heart.
The Weather Man's Mistakes.
No doubt, we all have troubles That arise from this and that, And we seldom make a home-run Though we're often at the bat; But the prince of all the fellows That performs the wildest breaks, Is the chap that brings the burdens Of the weather man's mistakes.
"Sunday, fair and cool and pleasant" So you hie yourself away To the wild-wood sweet and shady For a joyous, happy day; Then the rain comes down in torrents Till it drowns the very snakes, And you have a high example Of the weather man's mistakes.
"Wednesday, storm, perhaps a cyclone!" So you stay at home and wait, With your windows tightly shuttered For a hurricano great; But it's all as mild as morning, And you shout, "Of all the fakes!" While you grumble, wildly helpless, At the weather man's mistakes.
And some day a patient people Turned to furies by their wrongs, Will arise and smite the building Where the weather man belongs; And whatever then shall happen, They will know the joy that wakes, When no longer made to suffer From the weatherman's mistakes!
Dear Lord, I ask not that I live so long That all the joy is gathered, all the rose; But rather let me perish, ere the Song, The highest Hope and perfect Vision close!
"When the Roas'in'-Ears Air Plenty."
Talk about the joys of winter! Whut's the fun of foolin' round With the posies dead en buried, en the snows upon the ground? When the wind's a-tossin' blizzards in a most distressin' way Tell you have to set a-straddle of the fire-place all the day! But I tell ye life's a-livin' when the summer grows the grass Over all the nooks en crannies whayre a feller's feet kin pass, En the whole world seems of heaven but a half-forgotten type, When the roas'in'-ears air plenty en the worter-millons ripe!
Roas'in'-ears is best of eatin', though not very much fer style! Shuck an arm-full fer yer dinner, sot 'em on en let 'em bile; Salt 'em well, en smear some butter on the juicy cobs ez sweet Ez the lips of maple-suger thet yer sweet-heart has to eat! Talk about ole Mount Olympus en the stuff them roosters spread On theyr tables when they feasted,—nectar drink, ambrosia bread,— Why, I tell ye, fellers, never would I swop the grub I swipe When the roas'in'-ears air plenty en the worter millons ripe!
Near the sugar camps of glory is the worter millon patch Like a great big nest of goodies thet is jest a-gone to hatch; En ye take yer thumb en finger in an ecstasy so drunk Thet ye hardly hear the music of theyr dreamy plunky-plunk! En the griefs air gone ferever, en the sorrers lose control Ez ye feed the angel in ye on the honeys of a soul, En ye smack yer lips with laughter while the birds of heaven pipe, When the roas'in'-ears air plenty en the worter-millons ripe!
O, the darlin' days of summer when the stars of plenty shine With the apples in the orchard en the graps upon the vine! When the hedges bud en blossom, en the medders rich en rare Breathe the perfumes of the clovers like an incense everywhayre! En the world seems like yer mother, with the tender hands thet bless All the restless race of struggle with a heaped-up happiness, En her han'kerchiefs of glory from yer eyes the weepin's wipe, When the roas'in'-ears is plenty en the worter-millons ripe!
Don't You Fret.
Don't you fret about the weather 'Cause it seems a little hot; You will find it rather sultry Over yonder, like as not! And unless you mend your manners You will land without a doubt, Where the brim-stone keeps a blazin' And the fire is never out!
The Kingbolt Philosopher.
"In spite of whut some fellers say, this world never owed anybody a livin' yit!" said Uncle Ezra Mudge, as he whetted his scythe and tried the edge on the broad part of his thumb. "Thet heresy wuz invented fer the lazy cuss thet wuz too ornery to git up in the mornin' and hustle fer grub while the grass wuz wet.
"Some fellers seem ter act on the habit thet the world not only owes 'em a livin' but air willin' fer some body else to do the collectin' fer 'em. Leastways, they never do much hustlin' in thet direction theirselves. En I hev noticed thet when other fellers collect the livin' fer a feller, they giner'ly confisticate the most ov it in commissions!"
"Doing Pretty Well."
There are many that you meet with Who are always full of gloom, And they chew the rag forever 'Bout the darkness of their doom; But as through the world we journey, There's a joy that none may tell When we meet the pleasant people Who are "doing pretty well."
There are fellows by the dozens Who are always in the skies, And forever capture fortunes Of the most gigantic size; But we stagger from their presence And their glories that repel, For the quiet-spoken persons Who are "doing pretty well."
O, it's neither sun nor shadow All the time from year to year,— And it's neither all of pleasure Or of pain,—the journey here! But whatever clouds may gather Or what sunshine, for a spell Let us keep a steady temper And keep "doing pretty well!"
Caught on the Fly.
Hitch your wagon to a star, if you will, but always stand ready to throw the harness on the mules, also.
The man who masters the world may trust in Providence, but he climbs to greatness on the stepping stones of hard work.
In the economy of farmers entirely up against the crab-grass in the cotton-patch, the mule is mightier than the sword.
What shall it matter though sorrows distress us? God sends the sun and the shadows to bless us! And through all the years Joy ever appears, With a little of love and a little of laughter To fashion this life for a jolly hereafter!
The Kingbolt Philosopher.
"I want ter say," remarked Uncle Ezra Mudge as he began his Sunday shaving and stropped his razor on his thumb-nail, "I want ter say thet eddication is a big thing, but there air some things it can't do. One of 'em is ter give brains ter a fool. No school wuz ever yit found thet could change a wooden head ter flesh en blood; en the pore teachers air bein' continua'ly pestered ter death with idiotic payrents a-tryin' to have 'em stuff brains in their kids which the good Lord dident give any to. You kin plant jimson weeds in the garden, en tend 'em and water 'em, en nuss 'em the hull season through, en you'll hev only a leetle bigger crop of jimson seed at the wind-up. En it's jest thet way when brainless cubs air sent off ter collidge!" And the old man wiped his face with a hot towel and went on with his shaving.
There are many pleasant things in this world, but it is the job that allows us to get up when we please in the morning that makes life one grand sweet song.
Beyond the narrow years Thou sendest me, Flecked with their sun and shadow, tears and wrong, Grant me this glory, Father, this to see,— A world made happy in a world made strong!
The Kingbolt Philosopher.
"Them millionairs kin hev all the money they want en all the fun they kin git outen it," said Uncle Ezra Mudge as he drew on his blue denim wampus and whistled for the hounds, "but I kin git more ra'al fun en pure enjoyment outen a three hour 'coon-hunt with ole Lead then they git outen all theyr tom-foolin' aroun' with awty-mobeels en yats en summer ree-sorts en sea-side foolishness. It takes mighty leetle money ter make a man happy thet loves his work, en all the millions they kin pile up in front of him wouldn't buy a single beller from ole Lead on a hot trail! Come on, Lead!" And the old man strode away through the clearing with all a boy's enthusiasm for the hunt.
The Little Boy Land.
Away in the dim and the dusk of the years Lies the Little Boy Land of the Soul, Where the days are alight with the love that endears And the lullabies tenderly roll; Where the cares never come with their burdens of woe To the gates of the kingdom of day, And the joys are supreme as the little feet go Through the glorified path ways of play.
There are beautiful curls in the realms over there; There are cheeks that are rosy and glad; There are eyes full of glee, never clouded by care, Never shadowed by tears that are sad; There are toys for the wishing,—tops, marbles and strings,— There are ponies no hand may control; And the moments go by on their wonderful wings In the Little Boy Land of the Soul.
There are mother's fond kisses, enraptured with love; There are joys never sullied with stain; There are dreams brighter far than the dreams born above, And the raptures that banish all pain; And the world is so good that it cannot be true, And its paths lead to Heart's happy goal, While the joys of content every longing imbue In the Little Boy Land of the Soul.
O, Little Boy Land! How afar into wrong From the vales of your virtues I roam! How far, since the croon of her lullaby song I have wandered from mother and home! But here is a heart that can never forget Where the joys of our kingdom's yet roll, And I see through the mists of the eyes that are wet All the Little Boy Land of the Soul.
Caught on the Fly.
Faith and hope count a hundred, while idleness and discouragement are getting ready to figure.
There are many different motives concealed in the various compartments of man's being, but Vanity holds the key that unlocks them all.
The Kingbolt Philosopher.
"The feller thet is so wibbly-wobbly thet he can't trust his own idees," said Uncle Ezra Mudge as he stopped in the midst of his wood-chopping and leaned up against a log to rest, "is the kind of a feller who never amounts ter shucks in a cow pen. It takes a man who hez kep' hisself in sich a condition thet he knows jist whut he kin depend on when the firin' begins, who allus wins in the bayonet charge. En it don't pay to fool aroun' huntin' up other people's idees before you strike hard licks. Ef you do, the chances air your wood'll be scarce when the cold days blow aroun'!" And the old man spat on his hardened palms and went on with his labor.
In the Best Society.
"It sho'ly costs like ebryti'ng to move in de bes' socieety at Saint Looey!" said a newly arrived Guthrie coon to an old resident. "It jes' erbout takes all de money yuh kin make to keep up wid de pace ob de high flyahs in dat ole town. So I jes' come down heah whar a pooah coon kin hab a good time en save some ob de coin on foh dollahs a week, en git in de bes' culled socieety foh an ole banjo in de week days en two bits in de collection hat on de Sunday mohnin's!"
Be Strong to Dare.
Not he whose craven soul rejects the fight And flees abjectly from the booming strife Achieves the summits of his greatest might Upon the blood-red battle-fields of life. Be strong to dare! And if the conflict's lost, Men boast the fight when misers count the cost!
When Mr. Money Comes to Town.
When Mister Money comes to town, The waiting thousands throng The crowded highways up and down To see him pass along; They cheer him as he passes by, They clap with loud acclaim, And shout applauses to the sky At mention of his name.
They push and jostle with delight No matter what the day; They follow him through all the night To hear what he may say; They leave old friends divinely sweet To chase this new one down, And fall devoutly at his feet When Money comes to town.
Forgotten all the scenes of yore,— The joys of other years; The perfect bliss that went before And gladdened toils and tears; Behold! The old things pass away, And new ones come to crown The dazzling glories of the day When Money comes to town.
O, Mister Money! What's your rush! Why do you hurry so! Entangled up in all the crush, I can't get next, you know! Just come and camp with me and mine! You'll never see us frown; To have you with us will be fine Whene'er you come to town!
Caught on the Fly.
When a man barters his honor for money, he never gets a chance to rue back.
Running this big world must be quite a job, but every man who talks politics thinks himself capable of bossing the whole works.
The next crop that needs looking up in the quotations is the length of the pole required for the persimmons about election day.
Roas'in' eahs dar on de stalk,— Millons 'tween de rows; Eb'ry t'ing a-makin' talk Gin de crop ob woes; Hebben come en settles down On de millon vine; Dis heah dahkey's shuah in town Feelin' mos'ly fine!
The Little Feet.
Little feet that weary so Down the dusty roads, Pebbled are the paths you go With your heavy loads,— When the restless hours are o'er And you cease to weep, Little limbs shall ache no more In the arms of sleep.
Little feet that weary so On their journey long, You shall lose the hurts you know In the smiles of song! All the lullabies of light, All the smiles of play, Romp across the darks of night Into brighest day.
Little feet that weary so! Come and let me take All the heart-aches of your woe For your baby's sake! Cuddle on my lap, and flee From the world's distress; Let us run away and be Where the fairies bless!
Caught on the Fly.
The fellow that "soldiers" too much in the hay-field generally soldiers too little in the battle-field of life.
The smile is a lightning-express train that carries you fast and far, while the frown is only a wheel-barrow that you have to push along.
In the battle of life, nothing is gained by deserting your guns to the enemy. Stand by them till the ammunition is gone, whether they are popguns or flint-locks.
* * * * *
If you ever feel inclined to blame a man for making mistakes, just look in the glass and behold the manner of man he is.
* * * * *
The Sunday School is undoubtedly a good place for a boy, but as a corrective measure it cannot be compared to an apple tree limb and a handy wood-shed.
* * * * *
The folks who sit on the back-steps and worry about the future never catch any smiles from the present as she passes the front gate.
Love gave me a Dream in the years that have fled From the glorified joys of her beautiful home, And over the world of the living and dead It has followed forever wherever I roam; And over the mountains and through the black night It has guided my feet with its wonderful light.
It has joyed at the triumphs that came with renown, And its rapture surpassed what the multitudes knew; It has grieved at the failure that lost me the crown, With a faithful devotion unknown to but few; Through Despair's heavy shadow and Hope's holy gleam, How my lips still were kissed by the lips of the Dream!
It has wept with my sorrow,—the sorrow that fell Where the heart battled hard with the merciless foe; It has laughed with my laughter when fortune was well And the blossoms of triumph were blooming below; And far through the black and the bright of each year It has followed my feet till it followed me here.
O, the Dream that has lived through the years of the lost, That with constancy shares all the paths I have trod, Never leave me alone till the harbor is crossed And I stand in the power and the presence of God; And on through the ages no glory shall seem Half so sweet as the love of my Dream,—of my Dream!
The Frying Pan.
"With all your talk about necessary house-hold implements," said Sooner Dave, "none of 'em is in it with the frying pan,—just the common, ordinary, every-day frying pan, that you chuck under your buck-board or tie to your saddle-horn. These parlor ornaments, side-boards, new-fangled stoves, potato-mashers, coffee-strainers and all the everlasting tribe of culinary jim-cracks have to turn out of the trail for the frying pan and give it the right of way.
"With the frying pan for his companion, the civilized idiot is at home any where,—prairie or woods, creek bank or deer-lick or prairie-chicken trysting place. With a frying pan and some bacon fat, home is never far away, and a full meal is so near that heaven comes close to the hungry man. It has fought more battles, made more forced marches and won more victories than Napoleon. It has surveyed lands, bunched cattle and soonered claims. It has done all the pioneering for the frontiers-man. In this one divine utensil, the wanderer fries his meat, bakes his flap-jacks and brews his coffee; and as they all come steaming from its exalted circumference of life-sustaining food, what chafing-dish or modern steam-cooker was ever waited on by such a willing appetite?
"When I die," continued Sooner Dave, "I want a frying pan chiseled on my tomb-stone; for it has been the sole companion of the truest happiness I have known in this world. And if over in the next world there is a chance to choose one's crown after the style and finish the wearer may desire, I am going to take my faithful old frying pan along and wear it for a few thousand years just to show the angels how much a man can appreciate good things!"
What matters bog or bramble of delay,— The mountain slope or shore of ocean reeds? Pursue thy goal! Thy feet shall find the way Unerringly where thy One Vision leads!
To the World!
To the world! To the world! Let us carol its song, Let us conquer its grief and the wrath of its wrong, Till the lilt of its laughter shall sweeten the sod With the joys of the skies and the gladness of God!
To the world! To the world! Where the gleam hides the gloom And the lilies of love on the battle-fields bloom,— Where the light of the longing lies low on the stream, And the soul seeks the crown of his dream,—of his dream!
To the world! To the world! To the world that we know With its sunlights of love and its shadows of woe,— To the world lifted up, lifted far to His face, And the mercy that dwells in His bountiful grace!
To the world! To the world! It has beautiful years With the pleasurers of peace and the turmoil of tears, And wherever the feet wander fainting or far Every day is a sun, every night is a star!
To the world! O, the world! Ah, the fruits of its soil From the gardens of love drive the terrors of toil, And the sins that embitter us leave us and then We shall stand in His presence perfected of men!
The Glory Train.
Yondah stan's de gospel station Whar de railroad runs away Foh de house ob many mansions Ober at de judgment day! Bettah git a move on, sinnah! Doan't yuh let yoh folks detain! Hurry up an' git yuh ticket Foh de glory train!
It's on time an' sho'lly comin' Wid on measu'hed powah, Wid the ingine flames a-spoutin' Moah dan fohty miles an houah! Doan't yuh stan' dar jes' a-foolin'! Wid de judgment on yoh brain! Hurry up an git yoh ticket Foh de glory train!
Preachah say yuh have ter hurry, 'Case de kyars go whizzin' by,— Ef yuh want ter check yoh baggage Foh de mansions high; Bid farewell ter ebery pleasuah, An' de bad wo'ld's burnin' pain; Hurry up an' git yoh ticket Foh de glory train!
There are many dainties that hold attractions for the epicure, but in the strenuous times of campaign struggles they all give way to "pie."
The Bright Day.
The bright day, the bright day, The shadows smiling through,— The bright day, the bright day Where Love looks up at you! The bright day, the bright day! The sorrows fade from view; The white day, the light day, The child heart always knew! The bright day, the bright day! The sun is golden there; The sad clouds are glad clouds And gone is every care. The sky life, the high life, Is waiting at the shore; The bright day, the bright day, Shining evermore!
Caught on the Fly.
The wonder of it all is how a fool can ever have any money to be parted from.
When the efficient man appears, there is no juggling with occasion or ceremonious tradition. The instinct of helpless selfishness clothes him on the spot with robe and crown.
Shoot arrows at the sun, if you will; but before you proceed to unload your quiver in that direction, set aside a sufficient reserve fund to discharge squarely at beef-steak and potatoes.
The Kingbolt Philosopher.
"I heered tell," said Uncle Ezra Mudge, "thet one of them-air brass-collared fellers down at St. Looey thinks he hez a baboon thet is the connectin' link betwixt men en monkeys. I seed the same thing over to Lumpkinsville the last time I wuz thar. I guess thet feller must hev gone down thar en caught it en put it in a cage. It wuz in some respects much like a human. It walked on two legs en wore clothes, shoes, a shirt en a hat like a man. It wuz erbout the size ov a fourteen-yar ole boy, en it kep' on smokin' cigerretts all the time. A feller tole me thar it 'ud smoke six boxes ov 'em a day. I don't see whut's the use ov goin' clar to St. Looey to see a thing like thet, when they keep plenty ov 'em as near as Lumpkinsville! Stan'nin' right out on the main streets, too, en not chargin' a-cent to look at it all ye want to!"
If you have the "good resolution habit" swear off on that and do business.
The man who has a good appetite needn't worry the Lord with any troubles.
If faith without works is dead, that of the average loafer must be worse than an Egyptian mummy.
The brother with the best lungs may pray the loudest, but that gives him no insurance of a cool place over yonder.
Pretty Good World.
Pretty good world, If you know how to use it, Pretty good life If you never abuse it; Jog along, brother, Through pleasure and sorrow; All will be lovely With sunshine tomorrow!
There are many patent ways to keep young these days, but we have observed that they all fail after a woman passes forty-five.
Don't estimate your engine power too high. Many a man with a $5,000 education is too small for a 30-cent job.
We Sat and Talked of Other Days.
We sat and talked of other days,—two old and wrinkled men,— Beyond the dreams of boyish hours and all we fancied then,— And as we talked our hearts grew warm, and down the noiseless night We romped again with golden feet and hearts of pure delight.
The dreams we dreamed when life was young and all the world was new Came back again from vanished ways with raptures smiling through, And all the high resolves of heart and all the deeds of hand Returned equipped with robe and crown and showed the Promised Land!
We sat and talked of other days,—the days that went away,— Of child-hood's dreamy hours of joy and child-hood's heart of play; And as we talked of other days, forgetting weal or woe, The boys and girls came back again across the Long Ago.
We knew this life of men and things with all its griefs and glees Is not a dream of pleasures sweet or lilt of lullabies; And yet despite the shadows deep that o'er the sunshine fall, 'Tis always worth the living and its songs are all in all.
We sat and talked of other days! O, days that died unfelt, Where innocence was crowned with love and all the virtues dwelt; And in our hearts we sadly knew, whate'er the sages say, That Heaven romps with us no more since those days went away!
Caught on the Fly.
Finding fault is not hard work, but it is a great waste of valuable time.
"Food for thought" is a popular and necessary brand, but the hungry man entirely overlooks it on the bill of fare.
If you would have a soft berth in this world, you must first run the full-feathered goose down and then do the plucking by your own main strength.
The World All Right.
Don't sing of a bright world That waits "over there," But warble of this world And banish your care; Beyond the dark valley Sweet heaven may be, But the world is all right And it's all here for me! It has a few shadows And something of tears, But they only make brighter The beautiful years; And this world is so jolly Whatever may grieve That I'm not in a hurry To pull up and leave!
The Kingbolt Philosopher.
"I've noticed," said Uncle Ezra Mudge, "thet many en many a time it ain't knowin' how to git up thet makes a success of a man so much ez knowin' how to git down. Sooner er later a tumble comes rollin' along fer the best of fellers, en before he knows what's a-comin' he's clear down at the bottom of the pile. The feller thet kin git up a-laffin' under sich peculierr sarcumstances is the feller thet wins out en is on top when Gabriel goes to tootin' of his horn; but the feller thet mopes aroun' en talks erbout whut he hez bin instid of tellin' whut he's a-goin' ter be is kivered over in the scrap-heap, world without end, ferever en ever, Amen!" And the old man knocked the ashes from his Missouri meerschaum and ambled into the kitchen where the long green hung.
God Give Us Change!
God give us change! The days are long With labors hard that make us weary, And o'er the gladness of each song There floats a cadence somewhat dreary; We'd like to loaf awhile, for—say— Some five or ten sweet years, or twenty, And chase the dull cares all away; God give us change and give us plenty! God give us change! The dull days flow With quietude that palls a little; Just anything to make it go And heat the steam up in the kettle; No matter how the fortunes kind In dull monotony prove pleasant, We'd rather mix things up and find A stirring scramble of the present! We do not ask for all the gifts To fall upon us in a tumble; A very few where life's boat drifts Will keep us happy through the jumble; We only ask the mirth of men,— Where'er we be we'll always love it, And if the big bills vanish, then God give us change and plenty of it!
The "Sooners" may have their faults, but as a general propositions they are to be preferred to the "laters." Every good thing that has blest mankind since Adam had his celebrated adventure with green goods in the Garden of Eden, has been discovered, invented, dug out or dug up, by a "sooner." He has always been a dare-devil whose courage was so prominent as to attract the envy and malice of every "later" that whittled dry-goods boxes into splinters and used his time to cuss "the government." God bless the whole "sooner" tribe, say I, from Adam down to General Kuroki!
The home lights! The home lights! How they blaze and burn Through the darkness of the shadows Everywhere we turn! What if stormy weather gather On the hills we roam, We shall refuge find forever In the lights of home!
In the mighty game of life, Stand pat! Don't be moved by storm or strife, Stand pat! Keep within your heart a song, And the days will not be long, Till you conquer every wrong,— Stand pat, stand pat! Don't be bluffed by this or that,— Stand pat! Half the howls are chitter-chat,— Stand pat! When you hold the ruling hand You are always in command, And you'll surely beat the band.— Stand pat, stand pat! There's no need to draw or fill, Stand pat! Play your cards to make a kill, Stand pat! If there's one that wants to raise, Back your last chip while he plays Till the chump no longer stays,— Stand pat, stand pat! There's a stack of reds and blues, Stand pat! For the chap that knows their use, Stand pat! When the game is o'er and won Are the stakes that urged us on, God will cash our chips at dawn,— Stand pat, stand pat!
The Valleys of Rest.
What matters it, Dear, though the burdens be sore? In the Valleys of Rest we shall weary no more, And the music of mirth with its solace shall sing All the songs of delight the beatitudes bring!
Nevermore shall the days with the sorrows be sad Where the love-roses bloom and the joy-mornings glad— Where the violets dream through the east and the west Of the beautiful lands in the Valleys of Rest!
There the heart from its grief in a moment shall cease, And the soul hush its cries in the cadence of peace, And the life with the laughter of rhapsody blest Shall rejoice through the years in the Valleys of Rest.
O, the dear dreams that fled down the deeps of the past That await with their welcomes our coming at last; And the lips of our love that our lips never pressed Smiling there for their own in the Valleys of Rest!
O, the raptures that stay for our glorified feet When the joys of the past and the future shall meet,— When the hopes of the years shall return from their quest For the love-crowns of life in the Valleys of Rest!
Ah, the days, Dear, the days with their griefs and their glees Sail away on swift ships o'er eternity's seas; But at last we shall anchor with Love for our guest On the Paradise shores by the Valleys of Rest!
The Ignorance of the Court.
They tell a good story over at Guthrie at Judge Burford's expense. Recently, an old Tennessee darkey, charged with stealing chickens, was brought into court for trial. The facts were all against him. He had no attorney, and when the Judge asked him if he wanted an attorney appointed to defend him, he declared that he did not.
"But you are entitled to a lawyer," the court explained, "and you might as well have the benefit of his services!"
"Yoh Honah would jes' a'pint me some ob dese hyah po'ah white trash lawyehs," the old darkey replied, "an' he wouldn't do me no good. Ef it's jes' de same to you, jedge, I'd ruthah depen' on de ignorance ob de couht!"
The Quest for Joy.
A phantom I follow forever through all of the shadow and shine, Whose face is fair as the blossom, whose form is as warm as the wine; Whose lips are as sweet as the dewfalls that velvet the mornings of June, And eyes as the deep stars of Autumn that glow in the glories of noon!
A phantom I follow forever! Yet never on ocean or land Have I heard the sweet voice of her music or leaped at the thrill of her hand, And never, ah, never a greeting she gives that is tender and kind, As I follow through mazes of beauty where flowers in her foot-steps I find!
A phantom I follow forever! What matter though careless of me, She drifts to the sands of the desert and sails on the wave-tossing sea? With foot never parched by the barrens, with boat never broken by storm, I follow, I follow her passing and clutch at the wraith of her form!
And still I will follow the phantom! Whatever the questing may seem I'll conquer the spoil of her glory and climb to the crown of her dream; And over the deeps of my yearning and over the hills of my hope, She leads and I follow forever, wherever her phantasies grope!
And there at the last I shall find her—the angel that led me afar,— And we shall rejoice in the raptures where all the beatitudes are, And whether the journey be little, or whether the journey be long, I press the red lips of her beauty and leap at the lilt of her song!
Caught on the Fly.
When Misfortune concludes to pay you a visit, she pushes the door open and walks in without knocking.
Woman's inhumanity to man,—the one she has and the other she wants,—maketh the divorce lawyer fat with ali-money.
Temptation is the dangerous banana-peel on the side-walk of upright conduct; and even the bare foot sometimes takes a fall-down.
Trouble will double If trouble gets room, But will pine if you leave her And die in her gloom; For trouble is lonesome And moans from the start If you face her with firmness And lock up your heart
Sorrow will borrow Wherever she can, But will leave when you tell her You're never her man; Don't flirt with the vixen, Don't welcome her face, But exhort her to leave you For some warmer place.
Make Trouble and Sorrow,— The couple that moans— Keep out of your pathway And limp on the stones Just let them go weeping Through all of the years; For a man is too busy To join in their tears.
"When the Crow's Feet Come."
When we reach the Land of Forty, And the hot blood cools a jot, There's a mighty sight of changes In our vision, like as not; And we sober down a little As we figure up life's sum When we waken in the morning And the crow's feet come.
When they scratch their little wrinkles Round the corner of the eyes We begin to chase the creatures In a horrified surprise; But they cling with cool persistence And our hearts are stricken dumb For we know they'll never leave us When the crow's feet come.
We may tonic and cosmetic, We may take our beauty sleep; We may rub and punch and powder But the claws go deep and deep; And before we understand it All our beauty's on the bum For the years are turning yellow When the crow's feet come!
But it's all the way of Nature! There's no use to sob or sigh, 'Cause the chin takes on a wobble And the wrinkles wrap the eye; If we heap our hearts with gladness Life with music still shall hum, Though we reach the Land of Forty And the crow's feet come!
A Welcome for Winter.
A welcome for Winter! Though summer shall fade, There is joy on the prairies her bounties have made, And the Land of the Sunshine all happiness knows Through the days of the shadows and nights of the snows!
A welcome for Winter! What matters the cold Which the harvest has warmed with the russet and gold? All the valleys of plenty shall laugh through the white Of the snow-laden day and the storm-ridden night.
A welcome for Winter! Though June, rosy-red, Has plucked all her blossoms and frightened far fled, There are hives with their honeys and granaries sweet, And the fiddles of music with spring for the feet!
A welcome for Winter! If far from the days All the lilies have gone from the violet ways, There is joy that will dance o'er the meadows and sing, Where the carols of plenty their blessedness bring.
Then, ho, for the Winter! There's love on the hills, There is laughter and peace by the ice-covered rills, And the hearts shall rejoice in the songs that arise In the raptures that roll under storm-laden skies!
Caught on the Fly.
Some people act on an idea that work is so sacred they fear to touch it least they profane its divine nature.
Opportunity is a beautiful bird, but so shy that it feeds on the wing and never alights long enough for a common man to pluck its plumage.
Every man has within him the essentials of exalted greatness; but most of us are so enmeshed in small follies that the greatness cannot break through.
The Kingbolt Philosopher.
"I've lived off en on in this land of Trouble fer mor'n seventy years," said Uncle Ezra Mudge, as he adjusted a shingle-nail in place of a missing button for a suspender hold. "En I never yit got a chance ter shake han's with him. I hev hearn tell thet he is a mighty big feller, but my observation is thet when you onct git up close to whayre he's a-stayin', he shrivels up so under a brave look frum honest eyes thet you hev ter git a maggifyin' glass ter diskiver the kind ov an animile he actu'lly is!"
When Willie Goes to School.
When Willie goes to school, it seems The house has lost its light, And silence like a shadow dreams Of sunshine out of sight; The place assumes a somber air, And lonely musings rule The moments slowly passing there When Willie goes to school.
We hustle him from bed, and tell To quickly wash and comb, His breakfast eat, and gather well The books he carried home; We brush his coat and fix his tie, And with him fuss and fool, And kiss him as he hurries by When Willie goes to school.
And all day long we anxious wait To hear his foot-steps fast, Make music sweet there at the gate When he comes home at last! The lonely heart with rapture fills And life's hot warrings cool, And all the home with laughter thrills When Willie comes from school!
Ah, World, the school that young hearts seek! We know full well that you Will keep him long at tasks that speak Of books and ferule, too! God grant that in the far-off years He finds no dunce's stool, Whereon to weep with foolish tears When Willie goes to school!
'Tis Morning on the Hill-tops.
What though the valleys wander in shadows manifold? 'Tis morning on the hill-tops and all the skies are gold, And on the purple summits the raptures of the blest Are crooning their evangels and singing songs of rest!
'Tis morning on the hill-tops? The darkness at the feet Shall blossom at the dawning with all the roses sweet, And every grief we gather and every tear we know Shall vanish into gladness as up the paths we go.
'Tis morning on the hill-tops! The glories of His love With life and light supernal are waiting there above, And up the slopes of shadow our weary feet shall climb To kiss the smiles of rapture beyond the tears of time.
'Tis morning on the hill-tops! What matters sob or sin? The Master waits our coming and welcomes us within; And there beyond the shadows where gladness reigns alway We'll meet the hosts of morning, and dwell with them for aye.