ghtN? CGRKIGHT DEPOSIT. / OP u£P TO MY DAD COMPILED BY WALLACE and FRANCES RICE DECORATIONS BY ELIZABETH IVINS JONES NEW YORK BARSE AND HOPKINS PUBLISHERS 0.0 ©CI.A347812 T/o 3D" Copyright, 1913, by BARSE AND HOPKINS The publishers and compilers wish to acknowledge their obligations to all who have contributed to the contents of this volume, and especially to Mrs. Edwin Oscar Gale and Mr. Oliver Marble Gale for permission to use extracts from the works of the late Edwin Oscar Gale, to Mrs. Helen Ekin Starrett for the poem of her sister, the late Florence Ekin Allison, to Miss Florence Holbrook for the poem from the works of her late father, Edmund S. Holbrook, to Miss Rena Albertyn Smith, Miss Grace Berenice Cooper, and others; and to Messrs. Small, Maynard & Company and Mr. George Horace Lorimer for extracts from "The Let- ters of a Self-Made Merchant to his Son," to Mr. Mitchell Kennerly and Mr. William Rose Bene! for a poem from "The Lyric Year," to Messrs. Forbes & Company for a poem by the late Ben King, to " The Ladies' Home Journal " and Mr. Strickland W. Gillilan for a poem by the latter, to "The Saturday Evening Post," and Mr. Louis E. Thayer for a poem, and to Messrs. Samuel Ellsworth Kiser, Ray Clarke Rose, Donald Robertson, Bert Leston Taylor, Charles Hanson Towne, Christopher Bannister, John Jarvis Holden, and Alexander Maclean. OC3 i \ qp iC3 oDn 77o CD ■ MyJDad (J J ET this be said of Fathers. All our •■^ thought of God, Creator, heavenly Friend and tender, is surely based, since Time began, upon our human fathers here below; and His all-knowing justice, quick to smile upon our goodness, slow to punish- ment however much deserved, is founded deep upon our knowledge of the kindly men who are our sires, and still our surest friends in all this troubled world. Within their hearts our lives had being, from pro- foundest love rising within their souls our younger souls took birth, upon our baby- hood their eyes rested with gentleness, our stormy youth passed its slow hours with sympathetic light from their lost little days to give it guidance. Their toil, their weari- ness, their upward flight were all for us, and on this faithful duty performed so well is reared the edifice of civilization and the dome of state. — Wallace Rice. te '■'i- iBsiSS? DO qp fflv£>ad ■ TO MY DAD a-->PlM jLJUJ 1\7HEN I was just a little kid * * My Daddy seemed so big and grown I thought him dreadful old, I did, — Older than anyone I'd known. It never once came in mv head — When I was just a kid, you know, — That his own boyhood was not dead And had not passed so long ago. Of course I knew — and knew it then — That some day, say next century, Small boys, like me, grew to be men; But never men as old as he! In those young days I used to wonder, When I'd done wrong and had been caught, Just how it was Dad knew, by thunder! So much about my inner thought. Well, I know now my dear old Dad Has never lost the thoughts of boys, Nor how it feels to be a lad With little hopes and fears and joys; And every year, as these years end, My Dad more youthful seems to me — More of a boy, more of a friend, And younger than I used to be! — John Jarvis H olden. 7 3BBB DO IT » b zro MrJDad [F he's wealthy and prominent and you *• stand in awe of him, call him 'Father/ If he sits in his shirt-sleeves and suspenders at ball games and picnics, call him 'Pop.' If he tills the land or teaches Sunday School, call him 'Pa.' If he wheels the baby carriage and carries bundles meekly, call him 'Papa,' with the accent on the first syllable. If he belongs to a literary circle and writes cultured papers, or if he is a re- former in politics and forgets to vote, call him 'Papa,' with the accent on the last syl- lable. If, however, he makes a pal of you when you're good, and is too wise to let you pull the wool over his loving eyes when you're not; if, moreover, you're sure no other fellow you know has quite so fine a father, you may call him 'Dad,' but not otherwise. — H. C. Chatfield-Taylor. i""\AD — just dad: what love breathes *~* around that name wrought by Love itself! Throughout the year more lavish of gifts than days of June, he finds happiness in bestowing happiness. Not only does he give comforts and material protection, but by his strength of spirit, by his sympathy and sincerity, by his experience wrested from the years, by his joyous and youthful heart triumphing over grief and strife, his ex- ample is itself a teacher of life's greater values. —Rena Albertyn Smith. 8 r £83 ■ 0ty£)ad ZX1 USD X\]THEN I was a very little lad * * I used to go walking with my Dad, Sunday ! Yes, that was the day for me, The day of days, when Dad was free. He always bought me a red balloon That seemed to me as big as the moon, And he always took me to some fine shop And gave me a glass of ginger-pop. He took me out in the country, too, Where buttercups and daisies grew; And on one big bridge we used to stand And watch the ships — it was Fairy- land. . . . Dad died when I was still quite small, I think I missed him most of all; And, though I've seen 'most every sight Since I was such a little wight, I often long for those Sunday walks, My red balloon, and our simple talks ; And I've sought, but I never can seem to find Those curious streets that used to wind To that wonderful bridge on which we stood, And that flower-filled meadow by the wood. Yet I know if I found them the tears would start, And I think it would almost break my heart. — Charles Hanson Towne. 9 OC3 P I N my father, I observed his meekness ; his *■■ constancy without wavering in those things, which after a due examination and deliberation, he had determined. How free from all vanity he carried himself; how gen- erally and impartially he would give every man his due; his skill and knowledge, when rigor or extremity, or when remissness or moderation was in season; and that when- soever any necessary business upon some necessary occasions was to be put off before it could be ended, he was ever found when he went about it again, the same man that he was before. His care to preserve his friends; how neither at any time he would carry himself toward them with disdainful neglect, and grow weary of them; nor yet at any time be madly fond of them. How he was neither a superstitious worshiper of the gods, nor an ambitious pleaser of men, or studious of popular applause; but sober in all things, and everywhere observant of what was fitting; in those things which conduced to his ease and convenience with- out pride and bragging, yet with all free- dom and liberty: so that as he did freely enjoy them without any anxiety or affecta- tion when they were present, so when ab- sent, he found no want of them; keeping within the compass proper to a man who hath a perfect and invincible soul. — Marcus Aurelius Antoninus. m 3 w ^p Ms£>ad IV/f Y Daddy he's just been and told ^ "■• Me just the funniest thing! I always thought men were too old To be remembering When they were boys, if they ever were — And here Dad's been and showed That they were babies once — yes, sir! — Before they went and growed. And Daddy got the papers out With pictures of great men; And I guessed how they looked, about, When they were babies then. There's Pres'dent Taft — well, he was round And kind of smiling slow; And Daddy said that that was sound, And guessed that that was so. And Pres'dent Rosyvelt, well, he — Well, he'd just up and holler Till all the folks came in to see; And Dad said, 'That might f oiler.' And Pres'dent Wilson, well, he'd blink, All kind of still and slight, And sort of make-believe to think; And Dad said, 'Guess you're right.' And say, if they were babies — gee! There's some show for a boy like me. — John Jarvis Holden. 11 pa (. r& \ — J j DO D COBB 3BBQO \\ 7HEN Dad was young, he used to be * * So good he made his parents glad; He hadn't any faults, and, gee! The kind thoughts that he always had! It made him glad to wash his face, And always do what he was told; □ And there was peace about the place — His father never had to scold. Dad says his hair is grey because My wickedness has made it so; I'm not the kind of boy he was When he was little, long ago. I've put the wrinkles in his brow, And robbed him of his hopefulness, And he'd be young and happy now If I had not been born, I guess. When Dad was young he used to try To keep his parents full of glee ; He never made his daddy sigh, And was as good as good could be! Dad was an angel child, but still My poor old Grandpa has white hair; And who, I wonder, helped to fill His face so full of lines of care? — Samuel Ellsworth Riser. A li 7HEN the old man waggles his head * * and says, 'Ah, so I thought when I was your age,' he has proved the youth's case. — Robert Louis Stevenson. 12 on - wWBmp V »■ ' * x qp CQ fflyJDad C\R summer Saturday's long afternoon ^"^ I used to climb, barefoot, one throne- like knoll, Soliloquizing, "Father's coming soon." The grey pike billowed eastward like a scroll, And vanished in the summit of a hill A world-long mile away; around me played The shifting sunbeams, magically still, Tiptoeing from each ever-lengthening shade. I knew that when they crept into my ken Above the hillbrink I should know the span: White-stockinged bay, head-tossing grey; and then The strong familiar figure of the man. I'd know him — know him! Leaping with their joy My swift feet from my cairn would bear me down — A laughing, zephyr-hearted, eager boy, Welcoming home my father from the town! an sgy a p ±2 One day my father went away again; Perhaps the sun shone, but we could not see. I have not climbed that little knoll since then, 13 *db Q f3S T7o For Father is not coming home to me. Somewhere he waits upon a sun-kissed hill And softly says, 'My boy is coming soon.' He'll know me from afar — I know he will!— When, world-tired, I trudge home, some afternoon. — Strickland W. Gillilan. TPVEAR Dad, as your daughter takes a *^ backward glance over the road of her youth before rounding the corner of new duties, she sees the way lighted by the sac- rifices of fatherly love ; she sees burdens not dropped but made easier to bear; she sees wise and helpful counsel which guided past days of temptation and nights of discourage- ment; and in every weary hour she found always a sane counselor, a sympathetic friend in her dear Dad. — Grace Berenice Cooler. A KINDER gentleman treads not the earth. — William Shakespeare. '\ZOJJ know so much at twenty,' said "* the father to his youthful son; 'so much more than you will at thirty. At forty you will begin to suspect me of know- ing something; and at fifty you will wish to Heaven that you knew as much as your Daddy. I know, because I'm fifty.' 14 DQpf ~^IM o'er the pastures the deep shadows "**-^ gather; Twilight brings truce to the labors of men, And the tired world doth return, like a father, Unto the home of the evening again. Long pleasant shadows that wait the stars' blisses Follow the feet of the toilers, who come Glad from their labors to soft clinging kisses And the sweet cheer of their children and home. What are the toils of the day and their traces When, 'mid the wonder of roses and dew, Strong arms and slender are twined in em- braces, Young hearts and old pulsing tender and true? Darkling the night comes to doom the day ended ; Silent the stars mount their heavenly throne, Smiling fond envy in rays softly splendid, As the glad father returns to his own. — Christopher Bannister. TTERE'S to my good chum, dear Dad, "* with all the love of your daughter, Dad's dear! 15 wpm 0tr£>ad u "DROWN eyes, *~* Straight nose, Dirt pies, Rumpled clothes; Torn books, Spoilt toys; Arch looks, Unlike a boy's; Little rages, Obvious arts; (Three her age is), Cakes, tarts; Falling down Off chairs; Breaking crown Down stairs; Catching flies On the pane ; Deep sighs — Cause not plain; Bribing you With kisses For a few Farthing blisses; Wide awake, As you hear — 'Mercy's sake, Quiet, dear!' New shoes, New frock; Vague views Of what's o'clock When it's time To go to bed, And scorn sublime For what is said; Folded hands Saying prayers, Understands Not, nor cares; Thinks it odd, Smiles away; Yet may God Hear her pray! Bedgown white, Kiss Dolly; Good-night ! — That's Polly. Fast asleep As you see; Heaven keep My girl for me! William Brighty Rands. 16 on CD *~ZZ&t r^iiV- W ;. ODf IP 33 fe& ^m IP ^jb OP 1JI THAT I shall leave thee none can tell, * * But all shall say I wish thee well; I wish thee, Vin, before all wealth, Both bodily and ghostly health : Nor too much wealth, nor wit, come to thee, So much of either may undo thee. I wish thee learning, not for show, Enough for to instruct, and know. I wish thee all thy mother's graces, Thy father's fortunes, and his places. I wish thee friends, and one at court, Not to build on, but support; To keep thee, not from doing many Oppressions, but from suffering any. I wish thee peace in all thy ways, Nor lazy, nor contentious days; And when thy soul and body part, As innocent as now thou art. —Richard Corbet, 'A Father's Blessing.' D db TV/fYRIADS of stars, but only one sun; ^ -"■ many friends, but only one father. Yet, even as the sun's bright kindliness is taken quite as a matter of course in fair weather, so is a father's glowing affection. It is only when the weariness of a wet week comes upon us that we feel to the full what the splendor of the sun means to us ; and too often it is not until a father is long absent that his children come to understand the full significance of his daily life amongst them. —Rowena Adelaide Stone. 20 gft) tfftyJDad \ \ 7ERE I a poet, my love for my father * * would flow into song; yet, even then, I could not tell much about my father, for a father is one of the wonderful things I cannot quite comprehend. There seems to me something mysterious about him, some- thing that is not heard in his voice, though at times it whispers when he is silent. I think, most of all, it is something of which he is unconscious — an expression of his face. On the faces of other girls' fathers I have noticed the same indefinably wistful combi- nation of love, joy, pride — and pain. It is the pain I do not comprehend; perhaps I might if I could see the side of fathers' hearts which is turned within: the secret I seek is not written on the side they turn to- ward their children. If fathers suffer, they never tell, for they hide their hurts as war- riors hide their wounds. — Rena Albertyn Smith. \ K 7"ITH her blithe smile and gleam of * * golden hair, She like a candle lit her father's hearth, Making the old man glad. — Alexander Smith. rriHOU art the framer of my nobler be- A ing; Nor does there live one virtue in my soul, One honorable hope, but calls thee father. — Samuel Taylor Coleridge. u if Jt^^B &LA qp mCZ4L-J W 77o rpHE bitterest and the gladdest hour it -*- was! I stood at the stair's foot and heard your cry Ring through the house. Upon the slant- ing glass The setting sun made splendor, and I watched Him sink with eyes which nothing saw. Again, A moment's space the chamber-door un- latched Let out your moaning, and I bitterly Bowed down and trembled at your voice of pain. Eternity seemed crowded in that hour; All thought and passion, faculty and power, Was quickened and intense ; the veil of gross And faulty apprehension was withdrawn, And left the naked heaven of infinite things Close to me, like a throbbing heart. More close I felt thy spirit, and I cried, "What now If she be passing out on angel's wings?" Just then the sun sank to his other dawn, And as his rim burned down in final glow, I heard a new voice in the house, the cry Of the new-born, whose kindling human light Rose on our lives, and, please God, by-and- by Shall shine far out athwart the world's dark night. — William James Dawson. 22 o , fflrJDad M% ■gao /^OMES Little Lady, a book in hand, ^- / A Light in her eyes that I un- derstand, And her cheeks aglow from the faery breeze That sweeps across the uncharted seas. She gives me the book, and the word of praise A ton of critical thought outweighs. 'I've finished it, daddie!' A sigh thereat. 'Are there any more books in the world like that?' No, Little Lady. I grieve to say That of all the books in the world to-day There's not another that's quite the same As this magic book with the magic name. Volumes there be that are pure delight, Ancient and yellowed, or new and bright ; But — little and thin, or big and fat — There are no more books in the world like that. And what, Little Lady, would I not give For the wonderful world in which you live ! What have I garnered half as true As the tales Titania whispers you? Ah, late we learn that the only truth Was that which we found in the Book of Youth. Profitless others, and stale, and fat — There are no more books in the world like that. — Bert Leston Taylor: ' Treasure Island.' 23 UPji Di an fit ■i ZTo MrJDact A LITTLE child, a limber elf, ■**' Singing, dancing to itself, A fairy thing with red round cheeks That always finds, and never seeks, Makes such a vision to the sight As fills a father's eyes with light ; And pleasures flow in so thick and fast Upon his heart, that he at last Must needs express his love's excess With words of unmeant bitterness. — Samuel Taylor Coleridge. HEN Dad an' Maw was married in the days long gone an' dead, The neighbors sorter run the house — Mis' Grundy was the law; When Dad felt kinder bilious, the ol' wood- pile in the shed Was what he mostly needed, an' he uster go an' saw; An' Maw kep' busy knittin', makin' clo'es an' bakin' pies, An' Sis helped with the dishes an' the baby an' the rest, An' Bub — that 's me — did chorin', early bed an' early rise; The family was sleepin' when the sun was in the west. I'm Daddy of a family now, built on a diff'runt plan: A gas bill once a month, instead o' that ol' hickory pile; 24 UZD £ZJC3: * in Ki'- ; Now when I wanter exercise, I take the hired man — He does me for a caddy — an' I play my golf in style; An' Mother? She 'n' the hired help jest tuck th' aut'mobile; An' Sister whacks at tenuis — tendin' Baby ain't her song ; An' Brother rows an' kicks an' swims, his muscles is like steel — They ain't no chores to keep him down — he's too be jiggered strong! I dunno what our Baby does, but sorter 'spect the nurse Gets him to sprint with policemen when she takes him out to walk — He certainly is lookin' 's if he oughter come in firs', A-singin' coon songs long before he's old enough to talk. Them good ol' times wan't none too good — ■ they knew no better then, To work was pious, an' 't was always wickedness to play; But now our women's stronger an' we're better lookin' men, An' boys an' girls grow bigger — an' I'm glad to see the day! — Alexander Mac Lean. IKE father, like son. 25 — Old Proverb. OC3: K=j«fc DO D SO la DD qp OOr-1 ^ w ril AKE my head on your shoulder, Daddy, **■ Turn your face to the west ; It is just the hour when the sky turns gold, The hour that mother loves best. The day has been long without you, Daddy, You've been such a while away, And now you're as tired of your work, Daddy, As I am tired of my play; But I've got you and you've got me, So everything seems right; I wonder if mother is thinking of us, Because it's my birthday night. Why do your big tears fall, Daddy? Mother's not far away; I often seem to hear her voice Falling across my play; And it sometimes makes me cry, Daddy, To think it 's none of it true, ,Till I fall asleep to dream, Daddy, Of home, and mother, and you; For I've got you and you've got me, So everything may go ; We're all the world to each other, Daddy; Dear mother told me so. I'm sometimes afraid to think, Daddy, When I am big like you, And you are old and grey, Daddy, What you and I would do 26 no £83 f Z7o o I C- /kS — J If when we got up to Heaven, And mother was waiting there, She shouldn't remember the two she left, So sad and lonely here! But year by year still sees no change, And so 'twill all be right, We shall always meet her in our dreams, Daddy, dear Daddy, good-night. — Mary Mark-Lemon. \ FATHER who understands human ^** nature can turn out an imitation parson from a boy whom the Lord intended to go on the Board of Trade. But on general principles it's best to let your boy follow his bent, even if it leads him into the wheat pit. While a young fellow will consult his father about buying a horse, he's cocksure of himself when it comes to picking a wife. I want to say right here that I don't pro- pose to be an ancestor until after I'm dead. You worry over Charlie at college because he's a little wild, and he writes you that he's been elected president of the Y. M. C. A. ; and you worry over William because he's so pious that you're afraid he's going to throw up everything and go to China as a mission- ary, and he draws on you for a hundred. Worrying is the one game in which, if you guess right, you don't get any satisfaction out of your smartness. — George Horace Lorimer. 27 j-nr~~i tin? D LJ2 a ElQ a CO iD □ Oil da taL. TV/FY little son, who looked from thought- ^ ■*• ful eyes And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, Having my law the seventh time disobeyed, I struck him, and dismissed With hard words and unkissed, His mother, who was patient, being dead. Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, I visited his bed, But found him slumbering deep, With darkened eyelids, and their lashes yet From his late sobbing wet. And I, with moan, Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; For, on a table drawn beside his head, He had put, within his reach, A box of counters and a red-veined stone, A piece of glass abraded by the beach, And six or seven shells, A bottle with bluebells, And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, To comfort his sad heart. So when that night I prayed To God, I wept, and said: 'Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath, Not vexing Thee in death, And Thou rememberest of what toys 28 ri CO DQ Di 15 to E kind to thy father, for when thou wert *** young, Who loved thee so fondly as he? He caught the first accents that fell from thy tongue, And joined in thy innocent glee. Be kind to thy father, for now he is old, His locks intermingled with grey; His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and bold; Thy father is passing away. 48 on *-.' 59 \::;7-:V -•..:• rpHE joys of parents are secret; and so -*• are their griefs and fears; they can- not utter the one, or they will not utter the other. Children sweeten labors; but they make misfortunes more bitter ; they increase the cares of life, but they mitigate the re- membrance of death. — Lord Bacon. A WAY! let naught to love displeasing, *** My Winif reda, move your care ; Let naught delay the heavenly blessing, Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear. What though, from fortune's lavish bounty, No mighty treasures we possess; We'll find within our pittance plenty, And be content without excess. Through youth and age, in love excelling, We'll hand in hand together tread ; Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwell- ing, And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed. How should I love the pretty creatures, While round my knees they fondly cling! To see them look their mother's features, To hear them lisp their mother's tongue! And when with envy time transported Shall think to rob us of our joys, You'll in your girls again be courted, And I'll go wooing in my boys! 49 n qp IF" O ' ■ 361 Mr£>ad an UQ lVyjY wife and child, come close to me, *■ -■- The world to us is a stormy sea: With your hands in mine, If your eyes but shine, I care not how wild the storm may be. For the fiercest wind that ever blew Is nothing to me, so I shelter you; No warmth do I lack, For the howl at my back Sings down to my heart, 'Man bold and true!' A pleasant sail, my child, my wife, O'er a pleasant sea, to many is life; The wind blows warm, And they dread no storm, And wherever they go, kind friends are rife. But, wife and child, the love, the love That lifteth us to the saints above Could only have grown Where storms have blown The truth and strength of the heart to prove. — Ebenezer Jones. \ BUMPER, my boys ! to a grey-headed ^*- pair, Who watched o'er my childhood with ten- derest care. God bless them, and keep them, and may they look down On the head of their son, without tear, sigh, or frown. — James Kirke Paulding. 50 Ip do ■rpo • MfJDad UP tDLJ all CrTbi /"^HARLES! my slow heart was only sad, ^ -/ when first I scanned that face of feeble infancy: For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst All I had been, and all my child might be! But when I saw it on its mother's arm, And hanging at her bosom (she the while Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile) Then I was thrilled and melted, and most warm Impressed a father's kiss: and all be- guiled Of dark remembrance and presageful fear, I seemed to see an angel-form appear — 'Twas even thine, beloved woman mild! So for the mother's sake the child was dear, And dearer was the mother for the child. — Samuel Taylor Coleridge. LEARN to see with my old clouding * eyes My own young being thrilling as of yore ; I pluck forth from the surge on Lethe's shore Some wave-worn treasure, with new- winged surprise; Finding my little sons so wondrous wise They conjure back through Memory's long-locked door Lovely forgotten dreams; aye, they do more — 51 OQ a ^iD C3 C3 ■-. MrJDadl I gain a hope the Boy in me ne'er dies! And griefs that come? Surely, such griefs were known To him, my father, quite unguessed by me Till now, when my lads send me sym- pathy; His well-borne burden mine, I make atone, Thus only, for old faults — even then I see His and all fathers' blessing made my own! — Wallace Rice. "VTEARS bring fresh links to bind us, ■*• wife, — young voices that we hear, Young faces round our fire that make their mother's yet more dear, Young loving hearts, your care each day makes yet more like to you, More like the loving heart made mine when this old ring was new. And if God spare us 'mongst our sons and daughters to grow old, We know His goodness will not let your heart or mine grow cold; Your aged eyes will see in mine all they've still shown to you, And mine in yours all they have have seen since this old ring was new. — William Cox Bennett. 52 BPPSB on ?CZ3 ZTo F> OYS, I've been out in the clearin *~* Choppin' up some second-growth, And, I swan, it's mighty cheerin' When the frost is interferin' With your seem' and your hearin' And your nachral f eelin's, both, To hear your sister's voice a-callin': "Supper, dad; the boys is all in." Then I drop my axe and listen, Makin' out I didn't hear, For I knew a voice like this'n, Which for years I've been a-missin', And I seem to catch the glisten Of two girlish eyes — it's queer, But your ma lives in your sister As she was when first I kissed her. You remember her as turnin' Thirty-odd, and all wore out; But them days when we was burnin' Walnut forewood and earnin' The old farm jest sets me yearnin' That the years could turn about And your ma would call me to her From the days when first I knew her. Seems to me I didn't treat her With the care I should have took ; Such a faithful wife, and neater Than a hummin'-bird, and sweeter — 53 n n r~^i r 77o an iQQ God forgive me! — if I meet her There, she'll wear a lovin' look And forgive me — she'll be callin', "Come in, dad, the night is fallin'!" — Ray Clarke Rose. >-: < A WAKE, awake, my little boy! "**• Thou wast thy mother's only joy. Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep? O wake! thy father doth thee keep.' 'Oh, what land is the land of dreams? What are its mountains and what are its dreams? father ! I saw my mother there, Among the lilies by waters fair.' 'Dear child! I also by pleasant streams Have wandered all night in the land of dreams ; But, calm and warm the waters wide, 1 could not get to the other side.' 'Father, O father! what do we here In this land of unbelief and fear? The land of dreams is better far, Above the light of the morning star.' — William Blake. TTAPPY is the man who was 'Sonny' to ** ■*• his father and is 'Daddy' to his sons. — John Jarvis Holden. 54 con* ^ £> ^ ?Rpa t? \ — I E MY father loved the patient angler's art; And many a summer day, from early morn To latest evening, by some streamlet's side We two have tarried; strange companion- - ship ! A sad and silent man; a joyous child — Yet were those days, as I recall them now, Supremely happy. Silent though he was, My father's eyes were often on his child Tenderly eloquent — and his few words Were kind and gentle. Never angry tone Repulsed me, if I broke upon his thoughts With childish question. But I learnt at last, Learnt intuitively to hold my peace When the dark hour was on him, and deep sighs Spoke the perturbed spirit — only then I crept a little closer to his side, And stole my hand in his, or on his arm Laid my cheek softly; till the simple wile Won on his sad abstraction, and he turned With a faint smile, and sighed, and shook his head, Stooping toward me: So I reached at last Mine arm about his neck, and clasped it close, Printing his pale brow with a silent kiss. — Caroline Bowles Southey. o NE father is more than a hundred schoolmasters. — Proverb. 55 on on DQn • 7 < TX3 dP Q "IX THEN you stand where I stand, with * * your face to the west, With your boys, like my boys, half a dozen or more, With your wife like your mother and, save her, the best, Be you blest in them all, as your father before. May your joys be like mine, and your sons be like you, All a father and mother could wish them to be, Their respect and their love prompting each one to do For the son I adore, as my boys have for me! When you stand where I stand, with your face to the west, With the valley far stretching in beauty below, May it look like a spot where the weary may rest And a happy old age be delighted to go. Being conscious of having your duties well done, May you meet with your boys on occa- sions like this, Every grace of the father enabling each son Early joys to renew, every sorrow dis- miss! — Edwin Oscar Gale. 56 SCO fflrJDad ¥ HAVE two sons, wife — -* Two, and yet the same ; One his wild way runs, wife, Bringing us to shame. The one is bearded, sunburnt, grim, and fights across the sea, The other is a little child who sits upon your knee. One is fierce and cold, wife, As the wayward deep; Him no arms could hold, wife, Him no breast could keep. He has tried our hearts for many a year, not broken them, for he Is still the sinless little one that sits upon your knee. One may fall in fight, wife — Is he not our son? Pray with all your might, wife, For the wayward one; Pray for the dark, rough soldier, who fights across the sea, Because you love the little shade who smiles upon your knee. — Robert Buchanan. «* 1 A GES ago, Chryseis, lovely maiden, **' Went from the sacred ship that bore her home, Left it to all the fates wherewith 'twas laden, 57 ^—-*- - jfjt * -.„■_" QHH Walking four timid steps to welcome earth, Then at the fifth, light as Idalian foam, Running ashore, brimful of tender mirth, Ages ago. D Ages ago a father sad and stricken, Wailing the daughter ravished from his eyes, Mourned by the beach — his ancient pulses quicken ! Lovely Chryseis comes from out the ship .■ (La Slowly, until his reverend form she spies; Then to him hastily, glad, with trem- bling lip, Ages ago. Ages ago old Chryses clasped his daughter, Happy that she was his and not the King's. Smiling through tears beside that Asian water Lovely Chryseis, home at last, still stands. Many another bard some maiden sings — Dearer to me Chryseis on the sands, Ages ago. — Wallace Rice. I T is a wise child that knows his own * father. — Old Proverb. 58 on Z7o mrJDad 'VE a letter from thy sire, * Baby mine, baby mine ; I could read and never tire, Baby mine, baby mine; He is sailing o'er the sea, He is coming home to me, He is coming back to thee, Baby mine! Oh, I long to see his face, Baby mine, baby mine; In his old accustomed place, Baby mine, baby mine; Like the rose of May in bloom, Like a star amid the gloom, Like the sunshine in the room, Baby mine. I'm so glad, I cannot sleep, Baby mine, baby mine; I'm so happy, I could weep, Baby mine, baby mine; He is sailing o'er the sea, He is coming home to me, He is coming back to thee, Baby mine! — Charles Mackey. ET fathers remember they once were *~* sons, and sons learn their fathers once were boys, and it will be easier for both. — Christopher Bannister. 59 f^ " i U i OTILL thine own its life retaineth — ^ Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth Is — that we no more may meet. And when thou would solace gather, When our child's first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say, "Father 1" Though his care she must forgo? When her little hands shall press thee, When her lip to thine is pressed, Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Think of him thy love had blessed! Should her lineaments resemble Those thou never more mayest see, Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me. — Lord Byron. A FOOLISH son is the calamity of his •**• father. — The Proverbs of Solomon. /"OBLIGATIONS are universally defined ^^ by the bonds of relation. Is such a man your father? Then it is implied that you are to take care of him, to give place to him in all things, to bear his rebukes, his chastise- ment. But if he be a bad father? Were you then related by any law of Nature to a good father? Nay, but simply to a father. — Epictetus. 60 T TE is old now, ■* * And Time and Care have long ago Covered his locks with winter's snow, And lined his brow. His step is slow, Oft in his walk he stands to rest, With folded arms upon his breast, And head bent low. His eyes are dim, The world is fading from his sight, And flower and tree and sun and light Are naught to him. The past is his, And all day long his thoughts will roam, And weave again in fancy's loom Old memories. At night I hear His tottering footsteps cross the hall; Slowly and solemnly they fall Upon my ear. Some night, I know That I shall list for them in vain, That I shall never go again To kiss his brow. Perchance e'en now The Angel beckons him away; 61 qpi__ ~ And I, O God, would have him stay With me below. I cannot weep. I watch him slipping from my side — Gliding upon life's ebbing tide To dreamless sleep. But tears unshed Scorch all the fibers of my heart. There will be none to soothe the smart When he is dead. O God! I cry, Spare him to me! He is my all! Or bid thine Angel speed to call Me too, to die ! — Annie Murgatroyd. npHE parent begins with an imperfect no- *• tion of the child's character, formed in early years or during the equinoctial gales of youth; to this he adheres, noting only the facts which suit with his preconception. — Robert Louis Stevenson. 4 AA/ rouLDNT you like t0 come and * * live with me, and be my little boy?' asked a kindly man of a little lad. 'Oh, no, sir,' said the urchin promptly. 'Why not?' asked the other, amused. 'Because I have such a nice daddy of my own,' was the con- vincing answer. 62 ■nil DD JLin .■•■"■•' 77o DO ?QQ rpHE poets have not dealt fairly with "■• their fathers. Quick to sing the feel- ings of fatherhood themselves, when that great blessing and happiness has been be- stowed upon them, it is only in the rarest instances that their sons in turn have sung of them. One grateful exception, almost the only one in English poetical literature, may be found in the touching sonnet of dedi- cation to his greater father, written by Hartley Coleridge, who has thus in a meas- ure repaid the sonnet his father made for him when he was first put in his arms as a baby, to be found elsewhere in this book, to- gether with the sonnet the younger Coleridge composed for his own child on his first birth anniversary. The lines to Samuel Taylor Coleridge follow: T^ATHER, and bard revered! to whom I * owe, Whate'er it be, my little art of numbers, Thou, in thy night-watch o'er my cradled slumbers, Didst meditate the verse that lives to show (And long may live, when we alike are low) , Thy prayer how ardent, and thy hope how strong, That I should learn of Nature's self the song, The lore which none but Nature's pupils know. 63 - o'n I! CO 'Tito 7Zo **>< -^ * The prayer was heard: I 'wandered like a breeze,' By mountain brooks and solitary meres, And gathered there the shapes and fan- tasies Which, mixed with passions of my sadder years, Compose this book. If good therein there be, That good, my sire, I dedicate to thee. — Hartley Coleridge, TTUSBANDS should rather be fathers * -*• than lords. — Livy. ^npWAS when the sea with awful roar **• A little bark assailed, And pallid fear's distracting power O'er each on board prevailed, Save one, the Captain's little child, Who steadfast viewed the storm; And cheerful, with composure smiled At danger's threatening form. 'Why playing thus?' a sailor cried, 'Whilst terrors overwhelm?' 'Why yield to fear?' the boy replied; 'My father's at the helm.' — Author Unknown. i T is a wise father that knows his own child. — William Shakespeare. 64 loo DO; "^tyJDa q Hi da 3Q npHE Sun, sweet girl, hath run his year- •*• long race Through the vast nothing of the eternal sky Since the glad hearing of the first faint cry Announced a stranger from the unknown place Of unborn souls. How blank was then the face, How uninformed the weak light-shun- ning eye, That wept and saw not. Poor mortality Begins to mourn before it knows its case, Prophetic in its ignorance. But soon The hospitalities of earth engage The banished spirit in its new exile: — Pass some few changes of the fickle Moon, The merry babe has learned its mother's smile, Its father's frown, its nurse's mimic rage. — Hartley Coleridge. ^'npWAS midnight; not a sound was A heard Within the' — 'Daddy, won't you look An' see my pooty 'ittle house? I wis' oo wouldn't read oor book — " 'Within his palace where the king Upon his couch in anguish lay' — 'Daddy, dad-dee, I wis oo'd come An' have a 'ittle tonty play — ' 65 rsn\ C3: 3 2 Ul s PJ3 - . **»\ cp OQ! IC32LJ IrpcD 77o WHm 'No gentle hand was there to bring The soothing draught, or cool his brow; His courtiers and his pages gone' — 'Come, daddy, come; I want oo now.' Down goes the book with needless force, And with expression far from mild; With sullen air and clouded brow I seat myself beside my child. Her trusting little eyes of blue With mute surprise gaze in my face, As if in its expression stern Reproof and censure she could trace. Anon her little bosom heaves, Her rosy lips begin to curl, And with a quivering chin she sobs, 'Daddy don't love his 'ittle girl!' King, palace, book, are all forgot; My arms are round my darling thrown — The thundercloud has burst, and lo! Tears fall and mingle with her own. A SK your elders to tell you their histories. ***• You will find incidents of heroism or pa- tience or disinterested love that will make your hearts glow, and records of time differ- ing from the present, calling for other stand- ards and powers; and this knowledge will make you understand them better. 66 qp K ID ^BSsmf aa TK7TIEN the black-lettered list to the ^ * gods was presented (The list of what fate for each mortal in- tends), At the long string of ills a kind goddess re- lented, And slipped in three blessings — wife, children, and friends. In vain surly Pluto maintained he was cheated, For justice divine could not compass its ends ; The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated, For earth becomes heaven with wife, chil- dren, and friends. — William Robert Spencer. "T\IMPLED scheeks, mit eyes off plue, *~* Mout' like it vas moisd mit dew, Und leetle teet' schust peekin' droo — Dot's der baby. Curly head, und full off glee, Drowsers all oudt at der knee — He vas been blayin' horse, you see — Dot's leedle Yawcob. Von hundord-sixty in der shade Der oder day vhen she vas weighed — She beats me soon, I vas afraid — Dot's mine Katrina. 67 £5n o 02 Barefooted head, und pooty stoudt, Mit grooked legs dot vill bend oudt, Fond off his bier und sauer-kraut — Dot's me himself. Von schmall young baby, full off fun, Von leedle prite-eyed, roguish son, Von frau to greet vhen vork is done — Dot's mine family. — Charles Follen Adams. gi w HEN Dad has worn his trousers out, * * They pass to brother John; Then mother trims them round about, And William puts them on. When William's legs too long have grown, The trousers fail to hide 'em, So Walter claims them for his own And stows himself inside 'em. Next Sam's fat legs they close invest And, when they won't stretch tighter, They're turned and shortened, washed and pressed And fixed on me — the writer. Ma works them into rugs and caps When I have burst the stitches; At doomsday we shall see (perhaps) The last of Dad's old breeches. ■ ■ ■ .■ L3Q no HftS m a o 0$ OQ COMEWHAT apart from the village, ^ and nearer the Basin of Minas, Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer of Grand-Pr6, Dwelt on his goodly acres; and with him, directing his household, Gentle Evangeline lived, his child, and the pride of the village. Stalworth and stately in form was the man of seventy winters ; Hearty and hale was he, an oak that is cov- ered with snowflakes; White as the snow were his locks, and his cheeks as brown as the oak-leaves. Fair was she to behold, this maiden of seven- teen summers. — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. TV/f Y daddy, all these many years * A Of childish doubt and manly fears, My steadfast friend has been; Unwearyingly guiding me Past threatening terrors up to be Free in my thought, in action free, At peace without, within. Yet three times in my little life He interposed, and ended strife; And curious now it is To think of all he's done for me And that these trifles now should be Most grateful in my memory Of all my memories. 69 uu qp fit )' Mr s ad\ Once, a mere child with sunny curls, Which I despised, as like a girl's, I locked the door, and sheared Each ringlet, most defiantly; And my good daddy smiled on me, And understood, and set me free From all the threats I feared. And once, when I came home in blood, Much battered, and besmeared with mud, And said I'd had a fight, My daddy asked me if I'd won, Patted my back, said, 'Good, my son!' And gave me praise for what I'd done In every one's despite. And once, when I was sure I'd die Before help came, so sick was I — A gardener's pipe the cause, My daddy understood again, And said that boys had to be men, And I'd make a good citizen When once I knew the laws. How many matters of more ill He helped me through — and helps me still— I have no space to say; But this I know, these three I name, Where I found kindness and not blame, And understanding saved me shame, Stand boldest out to-day. — John Jarvis Holden. 70 an J ir SO 1 | ,* 1 "7 , ^ ' qp o TIME and Change! — with hair as grey As was my sire's that winter day, How strange it seems, with so much gone Of life and love, to still live on! . . . We sped the time with stories old, B Wrought puzzles out, and riddles told. . . . Our father rode again his ride On Memphremagog's wooded side; Sat down again to moose and samp In trapper's hut and Indian camp; Again he heard the violin play Which led the village dance away, And mingled in its merry whirl The grandam and the laughing girl; Or, nearer home, our steps he led Where Salisbury's level marshes spread Mile-wide as flies the laden bee; Where merry mowers, hale and strong, Swept, scythe on scythe, their swaths along The low green prairie of the sea. We shared the fishing off Boar's Head, And round the rocky Isle of Shoals The hake-broil on the driftwood coals; The chowder on the sand-beach made, Dipped by the hungry, steaming hot, With spoons of clamshell from the pot. — John Greenleaf Whittier. LEATHERS that wear rags X Shall make their children blind : But fathers that bear bags Shall see their children kind. — Shaks. 71 OQj npHOSE flaxen locks, those eyes of blue, ** Bright as thy mother's in their hue; Those rosy lips, whose dimples play And smile to steal the heart away, Recall a scene of former joy, And touch thy father's heart, my Boy! And thou canst lisp a father's name — Ah, William, were thine own the same! — No self-reproach — but, let me cease — My care for thee shall purchase peace ; Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy, And pardon all the past, my Boy! Why, let the world unfeeling frown, Must I fond Nature's claim disown? Ah, no — though moralists reprove, I hail thee, dearest child of love, Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy — A father guards thy birth my Boy! O 'twill be sweet in thee to trace, Ere age has wrinkled o'er my face, Ere half my glass of life is run, At once a brother and a son; And all my wane of years employ In justice done to thee, my Boy! — Lord Byron. TT behooves the father to be virtuous who desires his son to be more virtuous than he has been. — Plautus. 72 10, D M f rty^L/aa do IN afternoons, when Baby-Boy has had a splendid nap, And sits, like any monarch on his throne, in nurse's lap, In some such wise my handkerchief I hold before my face, And cautiously and quietly I move about the place; Then with a cry I suddenly expose my face to view, And you should hear him laugh and cry when I say 'Booh!' Sometimes that rascal tries to make believe that he is scared, And, really, when I first began, he stared and stared and stared; And then his under-lip came out, and far- ther out it came, Till mamma and the nurse agreed it was a cruel shame; But now what does that same wee toddling, lisping Baby do But laugh and kick its little heels when I say 'Booh!' D D J db He laughs and kicks his little heels in rap- turous glee, and then In shrill despotic treble bids me 'Do it all aden !' And I — of course I do it; for, as his progenitor, .| 73 0£3 I /J\ Q no It is such pretty, pleasant play as this that I am for! And it is, oh, such fun! and I am sure that I shall rue The time when we are both too old to play the game of 'Booh!' — TZugene Field. C\R all estates that fall to man ^-^ Since time began, I'm sure that I had rather Be a father, A laughing little son to see Upon my knee; I'd hug him, call him 'Laddie' — He'd say 'Daddie!' I'm sure I'd rather be the dad Of some such lad, For choice, and have my sonny, Than much money. — John Jarvis Holden. do TTOW often in my impetuous youth have A * I regarded the wishes of my dad as a wall between myself and some pleasure I coveted, only to be taught by experience that the barrier was the arm of a friend, thrown as a shield to guard a happiness higher than any mere pleasure. — Ruth Amy Sinclair. 74 J"—"?! * •^r-vf^^j^ y*» on LXJr My n fHPELL me, whither do they go, *■. All the Little Ones we know? They grow up before our eyes, And the fairy spirit flies. Time the Piper, pied and gay — Does he lure them all away? Do they follow after him, Over the horizon's brim? Daughter's growing fair to see, Slim and straight as popple tree, Still a child in heart and head, But — the fairy spirit's fled. As a fay at break of day, Little One has flown away, On the stroke of fairy bell — When and whither, who can tell? Still her childish fancies weave In the Land of Make-Believe; And her love of magic lore Is as avid as before. Dollies big and dollies small Still are at her beck and call. But, for all this pleasant play, Little One has gone away. Whither, whither have they flown, All the fays that we have known? To what faery lands forlorn On the sound of elfin horn? As she were a woodland sprite, Little One has vanished quite. 75 D D E 77o 0trJDadt9Kk D.C 1: D -Bryan Waller Proctor. 76 i Waves the wand of Oberon: Cock has crowed — the fay has gone! —Bert Leston Taylor. F> EHOLD, my lords, *^* Although the print be little, the whole matter And copy of the father: eye, nose, lip, The trick of his frown, his forehead; nay, the valley, The pretty dimples of his chin and cheek; his smiles, The very mould and frame of hand, nail, finger. — William Shakespeare. OU OQ rpOUCH us gently, Time! ■*■ Let us glide adown thy stream Gently, — as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream. Humble voyagers are We, Husband, wife, and children three — (One is lost, — an angel, fled To the azure overhead.) Touch us gently, Time! We've not proud or soaring wings: Our ambition, our content, Lies in simple things. Humble voyagers are We, O'er Life's dim unsounded sea, Seeking only some calm clime; — Touch us gently, gentle Time! a % 9PW -B1Q3 I HAVE met with fond mothers and fath- ers— They have bored me, ah, many's the time ! — There's Smith who full oft has repeated The tale of his youngling's first climb — Who has checked off his infant's cute say- ings And cackled anew o'er each whim, For Smith was the proudest of parents, And I learned about babies from him. There's Jones who came down in the morn- ing #R And cornered me oft in the car — With him there was only one topic, All others had sunk below par; His babble of babes was quite endless — My eyes would grow glassy and dim As he purled, like a Tennyson brooklet, And I learned about babies from him. But now sweet revenge is my portion; The Jones and Smith juniors are grown; While I — oh, the unbounded rapture! — Have a youngster, brand-new, of my own; All in vain are their efforts at dodging — I corner them now in great glee, And they suffer the things that I suffered As they learn about babies from me! — Arthur Chapman. 77 l ZJ C7— con men JL-sr-? s* ^° CO TTEERD 'bout what's happened? A * Why, o' course ye has; Baby up at Battenburg's, Hope it ain't the las'! UK An' we hear a squawk! Doctor come at eight o'clock, Rig all splashed with clay; Dad a-trampin' up the hall: Skeery? I sh'd say! Kind o' still roun' the house, Folks on tiptoe walk Till the door is open An wn V»£»a-i» q onnowlr! Doctor whispers suthin' — Daddy hollers, "No!" Doctor says, "Twelve-pounder!" Daddy whoops out, "Sho!" Daddy — happier 'n a clam! Mother doin' well; Baby up at Battenburg's, Haven't ye heerd tell? — Ben King. npHE pleasant face makes home happy. *■■ The tired father hurries as he nears the gate, thinking of its welcome. — Charles Buxton. 9 i TTELP for your father is help for your- A A self. — Christopher Bannister. aqpr pn OQifi =$ DDq iCD CDl QJUCH fun as we had one rainy day, ^ When father was home and helped us play, And made a ship and hoisted sail, And crossed the sea in a fearful gale! But we hadn't sailed into London town, When captain and crew and vessel went down — Down, down in a jolly wreck, With the captain rolling under the deck. But he broke out again with a lion's roar, And we on two legs, he on four, Ran out of the parlor and up the stair And frightened mamma and the baby there. So mamma said she would be p'liceman now, And tried to 'rest us. She didn't know how! Then the lion laughed, and forgot to roar, Till we chased him out of the nursery door; And then he turned to a pony gay And carried us all on his back away — Whippity, lickity, kickity, ho! If we hadn't fun, then I don't know! Till we tumbled off, and he cantered on, Never stopping to see if his load had gone. And I couldn't tell any more than he Which was Charlie and which was me Or which was Towser, for, all in a mix, You'd think three people had turned to six, Till Towser's tail had caught in a door; He wouldn't hurrah with us any more; 79 3 a _j tfa Si OD ' . ' L D C5OT ^^ - Hod -^ Ik' And mamma came out the rumpus to quiet, And told us a story to break up the riot. — Hanna More Johnson. OEVEN lusty sons sate daily round the ^ board Of Gold-Rill side; and when the hope had ceased Of other progeny, a daughter then Was given, the crowning glory of the whole ! The father — him at this unlooked for gift A bolder transport seizes. From the side Of his bright hearth, and from his open door, And from the laurel-shaded seat thereby, Day after day the gladness is diffused To all that come, and almost all that pass; Invited, summoned, to partake the cheer Spread on the never-empty board, and drink Health and good wishes to his new-born girl, From cups replenished by his joyous hand. — William Wordsworth. CHE'S always standing on the steps ^ Just by the cottage door, Waiting to kiss me when I come Each night home from the store. Her eyes are like two glorious stars Dancing in heaven's own blue: 'Papa,' she calls out like a bird, Ts looten out for you!' 80* rpHE dinner done, the lamp is lit, **• And in its mellow glow we sit And talk of matters, grave and gay, That went to make another day. Comes Little One, a book in hand, With this request, nay, this command (For who'd gainsay the little sprite), 'Please, will you read to me to-night?' Read to you, Little One? Why, yes. What shall it be to-night? You guess You'd like to hear about the Bears — Their bowls of porridge, tables, chairs? Well, that you shall. . . . There! that tale's done! And now — you'd like another one? To-morrow evening, Curly Head. It's 'hass-pass seven.' Off to bed! So each night another story: Wicked dwarfs and giants gory; Dragons fierce and princes daring, Forth to fame and fortune faring; Wandering tots, with leaves for bed; Houses made of gingerbread; Witches bad and fairies good, And all the wonders of the wood. 'I like the witches best,' says she, Who nightly nestles on my knee; And why by them she sets such store, Psychologists may puzzle o'er. Her likes are mine, and I agree With all that she confides to me. 81 0«Q I And thus we travel, hand in hand, The storied roads of Fairyland. Ah, Little One, when years have fled, And left their silver on my head, And when the dimming eyes of age With difficulty scan the page, Perhaps I'll turn the tables then; Perhaps I'll put the question, when I borrow of your better sight, 'Please, will you read to me to-night?' — Bert Leston Taylor. Y TOW sweet it were, if, without feeble **• **■ fright, Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, An angel came to us, and we could bear To see him issue from the silent air At evening in our room, and bend on ours His divine eyes, and bring us from his bow- ers News of dear friends, and children who have never Been dead indeed — as we shall know for ever. Alas! we think not what we daily see About our hearths — angels that are to be, Or may be if they will, and we prepare Their souls and ours to meet in happy air; A child, a friend, a wife, whose soft heart sings In unison with ours, breeding its future wings. — Leigh Hunt. o I KNEW a man, a common farmer, the father of five sons, And in them the fathers of sons, and in them the fathers of sons. This man was of wonderful vigor, calmness, beauty of person, The shape of his head, the pale yellow and white of his hair and beard, the im- measurable meaning of his black eyes, the richness and breadth of his manners, These I used to go and visit him to see, he was wise also, He was six feet tall, he was over eighty years old, his sons were massive, clean, bearded, tan-faced, handsome, They and his daughters loved him, all who saw him loved him, They did not love him by allowance, they loved him with personal love, When he went with his five sons and many grandsons to hunt or fish, you would pick him out as the most beautiful and vigorous of the gang. — Walt Whitman. a D in TTE was so ill, my little boy, A My hope and joy, And I had left the path to God So long untrod! The selfishness that I had kept About me like a garment crept From off my soul; I knelt and wept: 83 DO on OQr-1 Punished so bitterly; and oh, I merited it so! He writhed and tossed, my little lad, Lately so glad! The fever on his face was red 'Gainst the white bed; His eyes looked at me burning bright And knew me not, for all their light: The world was noon; but oh, the night About my boy, about my heart, Lest we should have to part! I knelt me there and prayed: I whispering said The prayer in childhood taught to me At a dear knee, Making myself a child once more: Phrases almost forgot before Poured from a breast so sudden sore, So heedless only yesterday Of God's mysterious way. So knelt I there to pray and weep His soul to keep — I durst not pray his soul to take Ere he should wake ! Yet, as the long hours lagged, his brow Grew cooler, though I knew not how. . . . Alas, that it should be but now I mind me of God's Fatherhood, Remember He is good! — Wallace Rice. 84 :aC2 fc* 3 . - oB Q rpHE lights come in from the street, -*■ In the school-room windows; cold, Solemn, unlighted, austere, Through the gathering darkness, arise The chapel-walls, in whose bound Thou, my father, art laid! O strong soul, by what shore Tarriest thou now? For that force, Surely, has not been left vain! Somewhere, surely, afar, In the sounding labor-house vast Of being, is practised that strength, Zealous, beneficent, firm. Yes, in some far-shining sphere, Conscious or not of the past, Still thou performest the word Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live, Prompt, unwearied, as here! . . . But thou wouldst not alone Be saved, my father! alone Conquer and come to thy goal, Leaving the rest in the wild. We were weary, and we Fearful, and we in our march Fain to drop down and to die. Still thou turnedst, and still Beckonedst the trembler, and still Gavest the weary thy hand. If, in the paths of the world, 85 ® no sag ZTo tfttrJDad O.G Stones might have wounded thy feet, Toil or dejection have tried Thy spirit, of that we saw Nothing — to us thou wast still Cheerful, and helpful, and firm! And through thee I believe In the noble and great who are gone; Pure souls honored and blest By former ages, who else Seemed but a dream of the heart, Seemed but a cry of desire. — Matthew Arnold. T~\IONYSIUS the elder, when he saw his **^ son in many things very inordinate, said to him, 'Did you ever know me to do such things?' His son answered, 'No, but you had not a prince to your father.' The father replied, 'No, nor you, if you take these courses, will have a prince to your son.' — Lord Bacon. TTOW many a father have I seen, * **■ A sober man, among his boys, Whose youth was full of foolish noise, Who wears his manhood hale and green! — Alfred Tennyson. [Fa son ask bread of any of you that is a A father, will he give him a stone? or if he ask a fish, will he for a fish give him a ser- pent? — Saint Luke. U,Qi 80 L-JCJS~~j 1 — 1 Q QQ Staftsra DO "=0 IT'S a comfort to me in life's battle When the conflict seems going all wrong, When I seem to lose every ambition And the current of life grows too strong, To think that the dusk ends the warfare, That the worry is done for the night, And the little chap there at the window Believes that his daddy's all right. In the heat of the day and the hurry I'm prompted so often to pause, While my mind strays away from the striv- ing, Away from the noise and applause : The cheers may be meant for some other; Perhaps I have lost in the fight; But the little chap waits at the window, Believing his daddy's all right. I can smile at the downfalls and failure, I can smile at the trials and pain ; I can feel that, in spite of the errors, The struggle has not been in vain, If fortune will only retain me That comfort and solace at night, When the little chap waits at the window, Believing his daddy's all right. — Louis E. Thayer. M Y father convinced me that nothing was useful which was not honest. — Benjamin Franklin. 87 m Pi CO" m ZTo MrJDaJ on T 71 THO took me from my mother's arms * * And, smiling at her soft alarms, Showed me the world and nature's charms? Who made me feel and understand The wonders of the sea and land, And mark through all the Maker's hand? Who climbed with me the mountain's height And watched my look of dread delight While rose the glorious orb of light? Who from each flower and verdant stalk Gathered a honeyed store of talk And filled the long, delightful walk? Who now in pale and placid light Of memory bursts upon my sight, Bursting the sepulcher of night? Still let thy scholar's heart rejoice With charm of thy angelic voice ; Still prompt the motive and the choice; For yet remains a little space Till I shall meet thee face to face, And not, as now, in vain embrace. — William Drennan. T^THATEVER the unknown days may * * bring me to build with, my house of life will be the better for the guidance of Dad, my father and friend. 88 ."'.-■■. " : ^.r^-'\: qo *t — > i " ' ' • " ; " ' ' ' ■ ■l TTo I ffly£>ad ■r ABRAHAM LINCOLN was sitting ***• on his porch in Springfield one morn- ing, reading the paper. His wife was giv- ing their little three-year-old Willie his bath. Suddenly the amused father saw the twinkle of rosy legs as the little boy, scream- ing with joy at his escape from his mother's arms, ran past and on down the street. Dropping his newspaper, the good father stood up to watch the flight, laughing. Mrs. Lincoln's appearance changed the aspect of the affair. 'Run and get him, Abe,' she insisted. 'He'll catch his death of cold. There, he's in the cornfield!' Being chased was a game Willie under- stood. The running of the tall figure of the well known lawyer was enough to at- tract the neighbors, and a large and growing audience saw the flight and capture. Past the smiling friends in the windows and on the walk strode the tall man, his son's fat legs around his neck as the urchin crowed and squealed with delight from his lofty perch. But it was not until he had been covered with kisses that he was so ele- vated, and not until he had been thoroughly kissed again was he restored to his mother. TV/I Y Daddy is a fellow man With such redeeming features As fall within the common plan Designed for human creatures. 89 fcrs Ro.a Mtttfjgg? qp iC32 S J 1 -ZZo ■rp?c=JB fflrJDad I ■i When I was young I thought that he Was quite a god, or near it, Unsinning, wonderful to see, And wise in mind and spirit. Then I grew up, and as I grew, I went to school and college, And learned so much — some of it true- That Dad seemed lacking knowledge; Or so I thought, in priggish days When life and I were callow, Before I'd caught the world's wise ways Through harvest time and fallow. And now again my Daddy is A wise, if mortal, fellow, With hosts of sound experiences To leave him ripe and mellow. He is much like the rest of us Whom years leave sweet and winning, And kindly, just, and generous, More sinned against than sinning; And more and more it seems to me, No matter what the lad is, He'll wish some day that he could be As good as his good Dad is. — Alexander MacLean. ' 'C=)Vi ■^ i uu TJE never wished a single tear to flow *■• *■* Except in gratitude for kindly word Or deed his heart impelled him to bestow. The whispers of the blest are by him heard, As in all ears they breathe what we should do, pain, But spurned by all, save by the noble few Who kindly lead them to a higher plane. He never boasts of any good he's done, But gentle impulse blooming into deeds Have dropped in blessings rich on many a one Who never knew the hand that met their needs. Through all the years the lofty thoughts have been Slow moulding his serene and happy face, Till you can almost see the soul within His features lighting with its hollowed grace. — Edwin Oscar Gale. "V/TY children, I must leave you now, ^ "■• The death-drops stand upon my brow ; My pulse is beating cold and low; Once more good-bye before I go. v And why good-bye? for what is death? I yield to earth my fleeting breath; 91