Part 12 (1/2)

”It's a Boy”

The doctor leads a busy life, he wages war with death; Long hours he spends to help the one who's fighting hard for breath; He cannot call his time his own, nor share in others' fun, His duties claim him through the night when others' work is done.

And yet the doctor seems to be G.o.d's messenger of joy, Appointed to announce this news of gladness: ”It's a boy!”

In many ways unpleasant is the doctor's round of cares, I should not like to have to bear the burdens that he bears; His eyes must look on horrors grim, unmoved he must remain, Emotion he must master if he hopes to conquer pain; Yet to his lot this duty falls, his voice he must employ To speak to man the happiest phrase that's sounded: ”It's a boy!”

I wish 'twere given me to speak a message half so glad As that the doctor brings unto the fear-distracted dad.

I wish that simple words of mine could change the skies to blue, And lift the care from troubled hearts, as those he utters do.

I wish that I could banish all the thoughts that man annoy, And cheer him as the doctor does, who whispers: ”It's a boy.”

Whoever through the hours of night has stood outside her door, And wondered if she'd smile again; whoe'er has paced the floor, And lived those years of fearful thoughts, and then been swept from woe Up to the topmost height of bliss that's given man to know, Will tell you there's no phrase so sweet, so charged with human joy As that the doctor brings from G.o.d--that message: ”It's a boy!”

The Finest Fellows.h.i.+p

There may be finer pleasures than just tramping with your boy, And better ways to spend a day; there may be sweeter joy; There may be richer fellows.h.i.+p than that of son and dad, But if there is, I know it not; it's one I've never had.

Oh, some may choose to walk with kings and men of pomp and pride, But as for me, I choose to have my youngster at my side.

And some may like the rosy ways of grown-up pleasures glad, But I would go a-wandering with just a little lad.

Yes, I would seek the woods with him and talk to him of trees, And learn to know the birds a-wing and hear their melodies; And I would drop all worldly care and be a boy awhile; Then hand-in-hand come home at dusk to see the mother smile.

Grown men are wearisome at times, and selfish pleasures jar, But sons and dads throughout the world the truest comrades are.

So when I want a perfect day with every joy that's fine, I spend it in the open with that little lad o' mine.

Different

The kids at our house number three, As different as they can be; And if perchance they numbered six Each one would have particular tricks, And certain little whims and fads Unlike the other girls and lads.

No two glad rascals can you name Whom G.o.d has fas.h.i.+oned just the same.

Bud's tough and full of life and fun And likes to race about and run, And tease the girls; the rascal knows The slyest ways to pinch a nose, And yank a curl until it hurts, And disarrange their Sunday skirts.

Sometimes he trips them, heads o'er heels, To glory in their frenzied squeals.

And Marjorie: She'd have more joy, She thinks, if she'd been born a boy; She wants no ribbons on her hair, No fancy, fussy things to wear.

The things in which Sylvia delights To Marjorie are dreadful frights.

They're sisters, yet I'd swear the name Is all they own that is the same.

Proud Sylvia, beautiful to see, A high-toned lady wants to be; She'll primp and fuss and deck her hair And gorgeous raiment wants to wear; She'll sit sedately by the light And read a fairy tale at night; And she will sigh and sometimes wince At all the trials of the prince.