Part 2 (1/2)

The last two weeks dragged slowly by; Time hadn't then learned how to fly.

It seemed the clock upon the wall From hour to hour could only crawl, And when the teacher called my name, Unto my cheeks the crimson came, For I could give no answer clear To questions that I didn't hear.

”Wool gathering, were you?” oft she said And smiled to see me blus.h.i.+ng red.

Her voice had roused me from a dream Where I was fis.h.i.+ng in a stream, And, if I now recall it right, Just at the time I had a bite.

And now my youngsters dream of play In just the very selfsame way; And they complain that time is slow And that the term will never go.

Their little minds with plans are filled For joyous hours they soon will build, And it is vain for me to say, That have grown old and wise and gray, That time is swift, and joy is brief; They'll put no faith in such belief.

To youthful hearts that long for play Time is a laggard on the way.

'Twas, Oh, so slow to me back then Ere I had learned the ways of men!

The Little Hurts

Every night she runs to me With a bandaged arm or a bandaged knee, A stone-bruised heel or a swollen brow, And in sorrowful tones she tells me how She fell and ”hurted herse'f to-day”

While she was having the ”bestest play.”

And I take her up in my arms and kiss The new little wounds and whisper this: ”Oh, you must be careful, my little one, You mustn't get hurt while your daddy's gone, For every cut with its ache and smart Leaves another bruise on your daddy's heart.”

Every night I must stoop to see The fresh little cuts on her arm or knee; The little hurts that have marred her play, And brought the tears on a happy day; For the path of childhood is oft beset With care and trouble and things that fret.

Oh, little girl, when you older grow, Far greater hurts than these you'll know; Greater bruises will bring your tears, Around the bend of the lane of years, But come to your daddy with them at night And he'll do his best to make all things right.

The Lanes of Memory

Adown the lanes of memory bloom all the flowers of yesteryear, And looking back we smile to see life's bright red roses reappear, The little sprigs of mignonette that smiled upon us as we pa.s.sed, The pansy and the violet, too sweet, we thought those days, to last.

The gentle mother by the door caresses still her lilac blooms, And as we wander back once more we seem to smell the old perfumes, We seem to live again the joys that once were ours so long ago When we were little girls and boys, with all the charms we used to know.

But living things grow old and fade; the dead in memory remain, In all their splendid youth arrayed, exempt from suffering and pain; The little babe G.o.d called away, so many, many years ago, Is still a little babe to-day, and I am glad that this is so.

Time has not changed the joys we knew; the summer rains or winter snows Have failed to harm the wondrous hue of any dew-kissed bygone rose; In memory 'tis still as fair as when we plucked it for our own, And we can see it blooming there, if anything more lovely grown.

Adown the lanes of memory bloom all the joys of yesteryear, And G.o.d has given you and me the power to make them reappear; For we can settle back at night and live again the joys we knew And taste once more the old delight of days when all our skies were blue.

The Day of Days

A year is filled with glad events: The best is Christmas day, But every holiday presents Its special round of play, And looking back on boyhood now And all the charms it knew, One day, above the rest, somehow, Seems brightest in review.

That day was finest, I believe; Though many grown-ups scoff, When mother said that we could leave Our shoes and stockings off.

Through all the pleasant days of spring We begged to know once more The joy of barefoot wandering And quit the shoes we wore; But always mother shook her head And answered with a smile: ”It is too soon, too soon,” she said.

”Wait just a little while.”

Then came that glorious day at last When mother let us know That fear of taking cold was past And we could barefoot go.

Though Christmas day meant much to me, And eagerly I'd try The first boy on the street to be The Fourth day of July, I think: the summit of my joy Was reached that happy day Each year, when, as a barefoot boy, I hastened out to play.