Part 12 (2/2)

Tough as they make 'em, and ready to race, Fit for a battle and fit for a chase, Heedless of b.u.t.tons on blouses and pants, Laughing at danger and taking a chance, Gladdest, it seems, when he wallows in mud, Who is the rascal? I'll tell you, it's Bud!

Who is it wakes with a shout of delight, And comes to our room with a smile that is bright?

Who is it springs into bed with a leap And thinks it is queer that his dad wants to sleep?

Who answers his growling with laughter and tries His patience by lifting the lids of his eyes?

Who jumps in the air and then lands with a thud On his poor daddy's stomach? I'll tell you, it's Bud!

Who is it thinks life is but laughter and play And doesn't know care is a part of the day?

Who is reckless of stockings and heedless of shoes?

Who laughs at a tumble and grins at a bruise?

Who climbs over fences and clambers up trees, And sc.r.a.pes all the skin off his s.h.i.+ns and his knees?

Who sometimes comes home all bespattered with blood That was drawn by a fall? It's that rascal called Bud.

Yet, who is it makes all our toiling worth while?

Who can cure every ache that we know, by his smile?

Who is prince to his mother and king to his dad And makes us forget that we ever were sad?

Who is center of all that we dream of and plan, Our baby to-day but to-morrow our man?

It's that tough little, rough little tyke in the mud, That tousled-haired, fun-loving rascal called Bud!

The Front Seat

When I was but a little lad I always liked to ride, No matter what the rig we had, right by the driver's side.

The front seat was the honor place in bob-sleigh, coach or hack, And I maneuvered to avoid the cus.h.i.+ons in the back.

We children used to scramble then to share the driver's seat, And long the pout I wore when I was not allowed that treat.

Though times have changed and I am old I still confess I race With other grown-ups now and then to get my favorite place.

The auto with its cus.h.i.+ons fine and big and easy springs Has altered in our daily lives innumerable things, But hearts of men are still the same as what they used to be, When surreys were the stylish rigs, or so they seem to me, For every grown-up girl to-day and every grown-up boy Still hungers for the seat in front and scrambles for its joy, And riding by the driver's side still holds the charm it did In those glad, youthful days gone by when I was just a kid.

I hurry, as I used to do, to claim that favorite place, And when a tonneau seat is mine I wear a solemn face.

I try to hide the pout I feel, and do my best to smile, But envy of the man in front gnaws at me all the while.

I want to be where I can see the road that lies ahead, To watch the trees go flying by and see the country spread Before me as we spin along, for there I miss the fear That seems to grip the soul of me while riding in the rear.

And I am not alone in this. To-day I drive a car And three glad youngsters madly strive to share the ”seat with Pa.”

And older folks that ride with us, I very plainly see, Maneuver in their artful ways to sit in front with me; Though all the cus.h.i.+ons in the world were piled up in the rear, The child in all of us still longs to watch the engineer.

And happier hearts we seem to own when we're allowed to ride, No matter what the car may be, close by the driver's side.

There Are No G.o.ds

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