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"By the Way"
By Esther Kem Thomas

Volume I

Published by the Old Swimmin' Hole Press
Greenfield, Indiana

Copyright, 1944
By Esther Kem Thomas

To My Mother

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The Indianapolis News, Indianapolis, Indiana
The Indianapolis Star, Indianapolis, Indiana
Diamond, Tulsa, Oklahoma
The American Courier, Kansas City, Missouri
The War Savings Staff, Indianapolis, Indiana
The Courier-Times, New Castle, Indiana
The Old Trails Echo, Centerville, Indiana

Appreciation is also extended to the many groups I have entertained in New Castle, Indiana, and elsewhere, with prose and poetry.
 

Live

If to dig a ditch is your job,
     Do it hard and do it well;
Or do you have a song to write,
     Philosophy to tell?
Well, go and build your mousetrap
     Write your song or reach for fame;
The soil of life is fertile,
     Grab a share, and stake your claim!
Don't drift lightly on the surface--
     You'll find out what it's about
If you meet each day and live it
     From the inside out!

Satisfy your secret longing,
     If it's good and if it's true;
That's your individuality--
     The thing that makes you "you'';
Living's never superficial;
     Every human has his niche,
And possesses latent power,
     Stores of inner fuel which
Feed that vital fire of conquest
     If you'll rid yourself of doubt;
As each day comes, try to live it
     From the inside out!

Spring Fancy

Oh, give me some ground when Spring comes round,
     A spot where I may dig--
A two by four, or maybe more,
     The plot need not be big!
The urge may come most any time,
     Possess me without warning,
At busy noon, the evening lull,
     Or even early morning;
The smell of earth, the sound of birds,
     The sun warm on my back,
Or just the very feel of things
     Brings on this "soil attack;"
Please let me kneel, when Spring comes round,
     And with bare hands work in the ground
For in this touch with humble things
     I find release, my cares take wings,
And, deep inside, I bless the ground
     When Spring comes round!
 

Hereafter

If, in this life, our best
     Has been the text,
There is no need to question
     What comes next!

Florist

It was a beautiful corsage!
She made it, squatting on one knee,
Intently counting, "One, two, fee;''
She was so careful to arrange
Each flower in her hand. How strange
That three stemless violets,
Resembling drooping, shy vignettes,
Two dandelions, a strand of grass
Could, by their giving, so surpass
An orchid! There by the garage
She knelt to fashion my corsage!

Easter Thought

As Thou bast risen, Christ, may we arise
Above the bondages which hold us here
Earthbound, within the ranks of hapless men
Who stumble through the darkness of a life
In which there is no God, no light, no truth
To cast aside the treachery of fear;
Let us not doubt that which our eyes can't see,
Our puny strength pit not against the might
Accept instead Eternal Mystery
Of One Who holds the key to day and night;
Perception grant to our unseeing eyes
As Thou bast risen, Christ, may we arise!
 

The Sweeper

And then, there's the woman who sees, hears, --and talks;
The equipment she needs is a broom and sidewalks;
Let a screen bang. a dish fall, a meeting disband,
She pops out the door with the broom in her hand;
No man from headquarters or from the news room
Has a chance to "know all,'' like that gal with the broom!

Now, her sidewalk needs sweeping, by some special quirk,
When the men kiss their wives and start off for work;
Then, she sweeps it again when some Mom smacks her Tad,
And, if neighbors should wrangle, she sweeps it like mad!
An adverse Pollyanna, a snooper for gloom--
Ah, you can't bide a thing from that gal with the broom!

There's no dirt on our street that her broom won't uncover--
Collector, inspector, expectant, or lover;
Her broom and her "interest'' invade every stir
That's the least bit unusual. There's bound to be her!
If she can't get the facts, then she's apt to assume--
There's no end to the dirt she collects with her broom!

No matter bow slow you steal out, or bow fleet,
She's out with her broom and cuts off your retreat.
"Good morning!'' she beams. "Have you seen? Have you heard?
It's a secret! I'll tell you, but don't breathe a word!''

So she leans, and she looks, and she talks, and she sweeps--
With the aid of a broom what a harvest she reaps!
When the blest trumpet sounds, she'll emerge from her tomb,
And be lost in the dust she kicks up with her broom!

 
Regret

A lifetime will be all too short,
     A hundred years too few--
I know there'll not be time enough
     For all I've planned to do!
Though many long for world acclaim,
     To humble joys I'll cling--
A picnic in the summertime,
     A circus in the spring.
A winter long of cozy nights,
     The grandeur of the fall,
An endless store of things to do,
     And how I love them all!
I know that when it's time to die
     I'll go reluctantly--
There'll always be one verse to write
     Or one more spring to see!

Bare Feet

When the garden's made, and the fields sprout corn,
And the blackbirds caw, high and forlorn;
When Grandma brews her sassafras
And the air is fresh with new-cut grass,
It's the time of year no joys compete
With the feel of the ground to a kid's bare feet!

My, those digits spread like a human fan
In the prickly grass, but a sharp rock can
Scrouge 'em up to a fluted cup
Till the tender sort of toughens up
In a day or two; what a yearly treat
Is the feel of the ground to a kid's bare feet!

How innocent the grassy lawn
To bide so much to step upon,
But a summer's end finds a sole and heel
Immune to rock, or bark or steel!
No path of roses man has trod
In luxury, and leather-shod
For satisfaction, reigns complete
Like the feel of the ground to a kid's bare feet!

This Day

The nicest things I have enjoyed today--
A pot of garden beans, a slim bouquet
Of brown-eyed susans in an earthen vase,
A friendly call, a spider web of lace
With dew-drop sequins, and a sample jar
Of new made jelly. First, the morning star
Bequeathed this day to me, while at my feet
The puppy rolled and stretched; the day was sweet
With odd variety-a daughter's eyes
To peek, with me, at browning apple pies;
At noon a shaft of gold lay on my floor,
And children, laughing, clamored at the door;
When evening threw its shadow on the lawn,
Then I was thankful! I had seen the dawn
Lay hold upon a day and mark it mine
And bind it round with shining, sacred twine
Made from the endless charms life can crochet
Into the pleasant routine of a day!
 

Evening

A dove call at eventide, long shadows on the grass,
The sag of weary muscles on the workmen as they pass,
The steady stream of homebound folk, hard striving toward their ends,
The last translucent glow of light, before the night descends;
A living, quivering hush absorbs the sounds of dying day;
The struggles toward accomplishment are neatly filed away;
A dove call at eventide, long shadows on the grass,
Absorption rides the faces of the workmen as they pass.

 
Intrigue

Take a sudden, dwindling shower
     When the sun comes shining through--
It's like a smile of gladness
     To a heart that's sorta blue:
Hear the monotone of locust
     In the midst of summer heat,
With its hint of fall a-coming
     On relentless, frosty feet,
And the thud of coal a-dropping,
     While the sweat's a-dropping, too--
There's the same intrigue of opposites
     To interest me in you!

Recipe for a June Bride

Three brimming cups of happiness,
     (Replenished every day),
One for Her and one for Him,
     And one to give away;
One teaspoon of humor,
     A dash of patience, too;
Add quantities of "give and take''
     And sift it through and through;
The milk of human kindness
     Must be blended gradually--
Don't hesitate to use it,
     It's a tested recipe!
 

The Sabbath

Oh, the hustle and the bustle, there's no reason and no rule--
Such confusion every Sunday, getting off to Sunday School!
Shoes to polish, hair to brush, bows to tie, oh, what a rush!
Round and round, at last we're ready; faces shining, here we stand;
Dad goes on to get the car out with his Bible in his hand;
By the time we're really started, my religion's on the wane,
And I wonder if, by rushing so, I lose instead of gain.
Eventually, all out of breath, we drop into our pew,
And learn, to our astonishment, that God has caught his cue--
A wave of relaxation simply sweeps you up no end,
And now you're smiling warmly at your neighbors and your friends;
Well, you come out feeling vital! Things assume their proper place
And you're smiling, smiling in your heart, not only on your face!
Now, I don't know how He does it, and I'll admit it's funny--
It's a miracle I wouldn't miss for any mint of money'

 
Mother's Day

She used to meet us at the door,
Me, with my three, Sis, with her four--
We'd kiss, and hand our little gift;
(You'd think it was the world); she'd lift
A hand to wipe a tear, and smile;
How gratified we were, the while
Warm, savory odors brewed within,
And Dad would call, "Come in! Come in!''

 We'd all come home to eat--
      It was our way
 To give our Mom a treat
      On Mother's Day!

She must have cooked and baked since dawn;
She ate still with her apron on
To see that we all had enough
And, when we had, we'd maybe stuff
On sprigs of celery, bites of pie
And, after dinner, have to lie
And rest a bit, while Mom cleared up
The table, and fed Sam, the pup;

 And bow our kids could eat,
      And yell, and play
 It must have been a treat,
      On Mother's Day!

Then, possibly, with dinner done,
We'd grab our hats and off we'd run
To see a show, and at its end
Stop in to call on some old friend;
Mom kept the kids--she didn't care;
She smoothed her apron, brushed her hair
And set the baby's milk to steam
While Dad went down to buy ice cream;

 And, later, we would eat
      Again, buffet,
 Off salad and cold meat
      On Mother's Day!

Were we so thoughtless? I don't know;
We seemed "mill run,'' as children go;
She comes to our house now, and yet
We still are caught in custom's net--
She stuffs the turkey, bakes the pies,
Rolls out the noodles, and then ties
An apron round her waist to do
The dishes, when the meal is through!

 I'd like the years less fleet,
      Her hair less gray
 To have her is our treat
      On Mother's Day!
 

My Mother's Hands

I wish into my mind would rush the words I'd like to say,
To paint a vivid picture I might make and put away--
Now the love so long between us is as strong as iron bands,
But the thing I'll most remember is the patience of her hands!

Even when they're lying idle, and the times are surely few,
I can see and know their willingness to do, and do, and do:
Never once a hint of tiredness in reply to my demands--
The symbol of the life she lives, the patience of her hands!

There's no task too long or tedious, and rewards seem small and rare;
It's too often we neglect to even show her that we care;
Though our words are lost and futile, heedless as the shifting sands,
There's one thing I'll long remember--it's the patience of her hands!

 
Transition

See the woman, in the middle,
Walking down the yesteryears?
That's my mother, and the little one is I;
And the one with hair grown white,
Walking slowly on her right,
Is my mother's mother, in the years gone by:
I'm the middle woman now--
Grandma went ahead long since
And my daughter walks where once I used to be--
Grant me many times, I pray,
Like the one I knew today,
When my mother and my daughter walked with me!

Thought

Thought is a luxury
     Of countless worth,
In eternal, nebulous
     Search of rebirth.

Thought is a journey--
     There may abide
The past and the future.
     Enslaved side by side.

Thought is a secret room
     Where I may go
And no one shalt follow
     If I wish it so!

"Young America''

The voice of Young America
     Resounds outside my door;
The feet of Young America
     Track sand in on my floor;
There're my two, Fred and Faye,
     Then Bill and Art and Baby Stu,
Deanna, Ray, and Gary,
     And little Sissie, too--

Some names I can't recall,
     But at the slamming of a door
I'm not surprised if my two kids
     Have brought in three or four!
"I don't see how you stand it!''
     I've heard my neighbors fret,
But pity for them fills me
     For the things they must forget!

Why, how do you stand a cloudless sky,
     A joyous bird's refrain?
How do you stand a sunset,
     Or the naturalness of rain?
How do you stand the thought of God,
     And love, and life, and say,
How do you stand the promise
     Of a shining, glad new day?

A childish confidence I prize--
     I love their simple creed,
Uncritical, responsive,
     And not inspired by greed!
May my house always be the one
     Where the rugs shall lie askew
And shouts of clear young voices sound
     To mingle with "my two!''

Time

Time passes by on swiftly silent feet,
     Or drifts, unnoticed, fraught with deep content;
The happiest moment seems the one most fleet,
     But, burdened, marches slowly, shoulders bent.

Time, in each guise, relentless, presses on;
     Adversity, in tow, may lead success;
Night may be parent to a shining dawn,
     And gloomy fragments presage happiness!

Fertility

There's a spot in my yard all dusty and bare,
     As drab as an earthenware cup;
Though it's lacking in verdure, its symbol is rare--
     It's the place where my boy's growing up!

Scuffed deep in its dust are the prints of his toes,
     And it's written as part of the plan
That out of the barrenness steadily grows
     The strength and the brawn of a man!

Someday, we'll have grass all velvety green
     Where our boy plays with never a care,
But right underneath by my eyes will be seen
     That gallant spot, dusty and bare!

Wash Day

It was early Monday morning
     On a sunny, bleaching day,
When Mister West Wind stood on guard
     To swish the clouds away;
The clothesline screaked annoyance,
     But the clean clothes paid no heed,
And what a jolly time they had--
     A happy sight, indeed:
Oh, the pillow cases whispered,
     And the white sheets billowed out,
While the wind picked up the shirts and chased
     The sunbeams all about;
The silken things hung in the shade,
     Demure, and bid from view,
But when the gaudy shorts waved out,
     They blushed, and fluttered, too;
Two girdles gossiped shamelessly--
     One was a silly wretch,
Exaggerating, flippant, for
     She was a two-way stretch;
Now, there was scandal once; it seems
     A certain, sleazy skirt
Was mated to a sloppy Joe
     But on this day, the flirt
With sly, suggestive flips and flops,
     And boldest sidewise glance
Soon found herself entangled with
     Some corduroy work pants;
The house-frocks thought the mischief was
     Old, tricky West Wind's fault,
And things might have been serious
     But Mother called a halt--
She moved that skirt off to itself
     And, goodness, what a blow,
Until among the woolens, she
     Discovered Sloppy Joe!
Long sox, short sox, in-between sox--
     See them trip a gay fandango!
Even Grandpa's clumsy longies
     Crook their knees and dance the tango'
There's a party every Monday,
     And a lot of good, clean fun,
And the clothesline screaks and grumbles
     When the dancing has begun;
Every backyard is the setting for
     A neighborly display,
While Mister West Wind stands on guard
     To whisk the clouds away!

Reward

Two little feet scuff up the rugs,
     Two chubby hands leave their mark,
Two baby lips may defy my commands,
     Shouting from daybreak to dark--

But one moist kiss from those baby lips,
     And two arms to hug me tight,
And a loving pledge in a sleepy voice
     Make everything else alright!

Men Folks

Oh, there's none so sick as a man who's sick,
With a throat so sore, and a tongue so thick,
And a little thin voice so sick and weak,
He can hardly speak above a squeak--
Then the radio starts and he lets out a roar
"Hey, somebody, get that last ball score!''

Now, I know he's sick as man can be
With a temperature of a hundred and three,
And he shakes and chills and sweats and moans,
And incoherently mumbles and groans--
But, somehow, he yells from his room, bedfast,
"Don't let that paper boy get past!''

My, he totters and leans like an empty sack
On his frequent trips to the bath and back,
But if Ruth steps in with a bowl of soup
While he's sneaking to get the Esquire or Scoop,
What a run for the bed, so spry and quick--
It's a sight to see in a man so sick!

Ah, bless their hearts, our pride and joy;
What a combination of man and boy!
Strong in a man's world, brave is he,
Bearing his share of adversity,
But bodily ills? He's your child and chick--
For there's none so sick as a man who's sick!

The Parodist

Is man the parodist to hope and plan
A future, when confined by life's short span,
For fleshly frailties end and slough away
And nothing but a deed or word can stay?
Should we best plan to live, or plan to die
Since what comes after death He says shall be
Not life's short span, but all eternity!
But how could one plan death on summer days
So flush with life; or then, in autumn's blaze
Of rich maturity; or when the snow
Of winter cloaks the world; or in the glow
Of greening spring, when buds burst overnight,
And blues and golds reflect their captured light?
If He had given life but to prepare
For death, why has He put such beauty where
The mortal ears can hear and eyes can see?
Why does he with such daily joy bless me?

The Jeweler

A day of shining gold,
     Blue velvet night,
Strung on chains of platinum
     Moonlight-

The Mighty Jeweler,
     In his lavish way,
Collects the gem-like hours
     To make a day!

One Dad

My Dad was one to stand at night
     And look up at the sky
At springtime moons and blue starlight
     And clouds that drifted by;
He'd seem to drink the fragrant air
     In natural, keen delight,
One with the breeze that stirred his bait,
     And murmur, "Some nice night!''

My Dad was one to love the heat
     Of any summer day;
The clover field to him was sweet;
     He mowed it all away--
With shirt stuck to his back and wet
     Up on the hay he'd climb
And pause to mop his face, and say,
     "Ah, good old summertime!''

My Dad was one to bustle in
     And stamp the winter snow,
And toast himself from toe to chin
     Before the fire, and throw
A perfect, curling apple peel
     That sizzed, and quickly fried;
Content, he'd slice a bite and say,
     "It's good to be inside!''

My Dad was one who liked to live,
     Who savored simple things,
Who reached out, not to take, but give,
     And then, on flashing wings,
Death came to seal his lips and eyes--
     We stood in helpless sorrow,
And heard him feebly voice the hope,
     "I'm coming home, tomorrow!''

My Dad

My Dad is gone. There'll be a vacant chair--
A vacancy so desolate-and in the air
     Memories defy my grasp today,
And, inwardly, I writhe because, too late,
I know one of our own can pass the gate
     That opens but one way, one way!

I see his smile, the way he was to me,
But, in torment, I want reality,
     And yearn for but one day of grace
To know again his work-roughed hand on mine
Or reach with hungry arms past the divine
     To touch his face!

When Honeysuckle Blooms

When honeysuckle blooms again,
     I think of you, dear Dad!
Its breath of fragrance stirs to life
     The days of joy we bad.

A picnic, show, or county fair,
     A glad vacation time,
A holiday, each one the best,
     All pass in pantomime!

Sweet honeysuckle filled the room
     And clung, where last you lay
Familiar, fading, tranquilized,
     And following God's way.

So shall the cloying scent arouse
     Fond memories and sad,
For honeysuckle brings you near
     Again to me, dear Dad!

The Farmer

In each of us the farmer dwells,
     Our lives a fertile field;
What crops are planted every day
     Determine much the yield;
The plowing season never ends--
     By steady, honest toil
The weeds of life are daily turned
     Beneath rich, vital soil,
And if the furrows in our wake
     Hold seeds, select and prime,
Then how our fields we cultivate
     Will tell, at harvesttime!

To Be Like That

The folks in the big house next to us
Don't ever wrangle or quarrel or fuss--
They love and live and work and play,
And laughter is in the words they say;
I've yearned, when I crossed their "welcome'' mat,
To live in their house and laugh like that!

But in the cottage on down the bill,
As poor as mice, are Mary and Bill--
Their children are many, their floors may be bare,
But you know by their faces that love dwells there--
I've longed, when I paused for a moment to chat,
To live in their house, and love like that!

Then, out on a farm, where I often pass
Was a man with a sickle, cutting grass--
He stopped, complacently, looking around
So satisfied with his plot of ground,
And I wished, as he lifted his hand to his bat,
To be on his farm, and content like that!

But, one day, I looked in my own back yard--
There the children were laughing and playing hard;
I envied no person--I suddenly knew
Contentment depends upon one's point of view,
And I saw, though the place be a mansion or flat,
If my family is with me, I'm happy in that!

Where Do I Come To On You

Why, it seems it was only yesterday
     He measured himself to me;
His firm, little back pressing oh, so close,
     Reaching scarcely above my knee,
And he anxiously lisped in his baby voice,
     His eyes as blue as blue,
Excited, tremulous, wishfully,
     "Mother, where do I come to on you?''

Then, today, in a shy and boyish way,
     Controlling his ecstasy,
He glanced across as our shoulders met
     And hesitant, laughed at me--
I noticed, too, with a breathless stab;
     For a moment, it pierced me through--
Back to back we measured; he proudly said,
     "Now, where do I come to on you?''

Oh, I wouldn't hold back the passing time,
     Or alter its course for me;
I've prayed that he'd grow up big and strong
     And be what he'd like to be,
But I know that the time will be so soon--
     Yet, I'm proud of its coming too,
When my voice will be the one to say,
     "Son, where do I come to on you?''

Jelly Making

And now I know it's fall--the kitchen reeks
With scent of grapes, whose silvery, purple cheeks
Have yielded up their succulence, and show
Their jellied wine in glasses, row on row;
Neat in their waxen caps, a tasty spread
To satisfy the appetites ahead!
There's goodness in this making jell from juice,
Like storing happiness for future use,
And in its bubbling depths my heart can see
A preparation for my family.
What if the winter winds blow sharp and chill,
And call of hungry mouths is loud. I will
Get out the bread, and let them spread themselves
A taste of summer from my pantry shelves!

Fowl Philosophy

"Cluck and cackle! Cackle and cluck!''
"You're not so smart,'' to the hen said the duck.
"See me?'' and she gracefully swam away.
"I'm as smart as you are any day!''

The hen stopped short, raised her silly chin,
Strode to the pond, and jumped right in.
"Too bad,'' said the duck, "She was doing fine,
But she lacked the sense to stick to her line!''
 

The Meter Reader Man

Go ahead, impress your neighbors, and your friends, too, if you can,
But you'll never keep a secret from that Meter Reader Man!
There's no warning when he's coming--"Meter reader!'' he calls out,
And he's half way through the house before you know what it's about.

Oftentimes, and so politely, when he steps inside the door,
He finds the housewife madly skidding round the kitchen floor
In a semi-dressed condition, grabbing first this thing and that--
All escape cut off, she's cornered, like the old proverbial rat!

Does he look, or raise an eyebrow, or suppress a grin? Not he!
In fact, 'twould be relief to shake such equanimity!
With his flashlight, hesitating, he descends each step with care
So's to miss those telltale bottles you bid on the basement stair;

Or Junior tags the man along and points out, with delight,
The girdle you bung up to dry, all safe and out of sight,
Or from the row of undies, banging modest in a line,
Junior pipes up, "These is momie's, 'n the little 'uns is mine!''

Ah, me, to blush unseen! There'll be no dignity, no pride,
And you wonder if the meter man reveals your secret side--
Now, the ice-man in the old days must have got some awful jolts
When the silent meter reader came to read the ohms or volts,

Or what ever he puts down in that mysterious black book,
In which he probably can tell bow much you clean and cook--
In and out, he weaves his pattern, trudging, trudging through my life;
He's the family parasite and neither husband, child nor wife.

Yes, his would be one diary I'd really like to scan,
For I've shared a lot of secrets with the Meter Reader Man!

 
Priority

You kissed the rose you gave to me
     You kissed my finger tips--
Since when have hands and flowers held
     Priority over lips!

Back to School

Columbus found America--
     Haul out the "cap and stool''--
The sun is gold! The air is crisp
     And now it's time for school!

Fulfillment gorges Mother Earth,
     Maturity is here;
Fulfillment shines in sister's eyes--
     She starts to school this year'

Mother shops for new school clothes,
     Teacher cleans the slates;
Youth, in sweaters, groups around
     And loafs, and laughs, and waits!

Ah, sweet nostalgia, loose your grip!
     Yours is such futile pain;
The years have borne me far too far
     To start to school again!

Campfires

I love a picnic in the fall,
     The shivering, stamping kind,
When firelight fingers flick the dark,
     And winter flicks the mind;
The hotdogs stew and drip and spit,
     The buns warm in a pan;
What banquet boasts a finer dish?
     What greater boon to man
Than feasting in October dusk,
     Wood smoke and fallen leaves,
The roof and walls of crispy night--
     To this my fancy cleaves!

Two Little Shoes

Two little shoes stopped under the bed--
Stopped in their tracks where a dear sleepy head
Lies sprawled, arms flung up in abandon, to sleep,
While two little shoes lean together and keep
Their innocent, vigilant watch through the night;
Sleep tight, little one, sleep tight!

Two little shoes with the heels worn down
And the toes turned up in a backward frown--
There, so faithfully watching, half-laced up, they stand
As though guarding the gates of her Sleepy Time Land,
And they'll wait there till morning comes, just as they fell--
Rest well, little one, rest well!

Two little shoes waiting there, all alone,
One sits upright, the other lies prone
On its little scuffed side with the tongue lopping in
Where a small foot will trudge when the mornings begin;
Rough little, scuffed little, little girl shoes
Shall convoy your Sleep-time Cruise!

One Page from the Diary of a Traveling
Auditor's Wife

Dear Diary: Perhaps you know
Why this week you're neglected so;
Well, I've been shelved, too, so to speak--
Now let me itemize this week;
On Monday, not a word we spoke
For he had gone before I woke;
On Tuesday, I thought he'd be here
Although his routing wasn't clear;
On Wednesday, I prepared a steak,
And cleaned the house, and baked a cake,
Which, by the way, was awfully dumb--
I should have known he mightn't come;
On Thursday, I was plenty low!
With hair all curled and nails just so,
My best perfume behind my ears--
Oh, I was all fixed up, my dears!
He didn't come--and I saw red!
A card next morning came instead:
Just when he'll be here isn't clear.
He simply says, "I love you, dear,
But things turned up since I saw you;
I'll be home--in a day or two.''
Now, if I drank, I'd get some gin
So rigor mortis can't set in,
Or run down to a picture show,
The place all good grass-widows go.
Ho, hum! His pay check came today;
Expenses, too--and that ain't hay!
If I'm to get down town and shop,
For now, Dear Diary, I'll stop!

Nature Study

A fruity fragrance, pleasant, sweet,
     From vine and tree is freed;
The cricket seeks the hearth to sit
     Long nosed, and knobble-kneed;
A vagrant leaf slips down, another
     Blushes far too soon;
The dawn holds sparkling promise of
     Accomplishment! At noon
The heat slants off its yellow shaft
     To lie, a molten pool,
And nights invigorate themselves
     In darkness, soft and cool;
One day links with another
     In a lovely, golden chain,
As magical as fairy tales--
     As natural as rain!

Wishful Thinking

Now, if my idol should have feet of clay,
Then, I'd be glad, for in this mortal way
Perhaps on common ground we two might meet
In perfect union--erring, but complete!

Visitin' Day

Gee, we had the best supper that night--steak and peas,
'N sliced up potatoes, tastin' of cheese,
'N right then it happened so's I couldn't eat--
Mom went right on cuttin' her steak up as neat,
'N in between bites she sez, smilin' 'n cool,
"Tomorra's visitin' day at school!"
Dad lays down his fork, "Well, son, what's wrong?"
'N Mom pulls her face down all funny and long,
'N lifts up her eyebrows at Dad to say,
"Our Willyum's 'llergic to visitin' day!"

Somehow when a teacher 'n Moms gets together
Ya ain't got a chance, 'n ya never know whether
There's gonna be tellin', 'n even Mom's fussed,
'N I scringe like I'm watchin' a b'loon 'bout to bust!
Nen what Mom finds out, ya don't know if it's bad
Till ya see if she goes home 'n blames it on Dad;
Aw, Mom's one of the best, 'n the teacher's okay,
But it's certny a strain, on visitin' day!

It jest don't seem right with Mom on the place,
Asettin' so still, in her comp'ny face,
Nen when the teacher calls on me
I can't even 'member if two 'n one's three,
But Betsy, in front of me, tosses her head,
'N I kin feel my neck gettin red
When she answers the questions I don't know,
'N smiles at my Mom with her curls jest so,
'N I make up my mind somehow, someway
I'm gonna recite, next visitin' day!

Course I ain't scared cause I've done so much
'Cept fight, 'n whisper, 'n oh, some such
As that--er pester one of the girls
So awful proud of her long curls!
Well, with my new knife, it wuz a cinch
To trim 'em down, about an inch
'N did she yell, 'n start to run
To tell the teacher, but jest in fun
She wuz tied to her seat by her apron strings--
Aw, she wern't hurt a bit, but it's one of them things
Yer Mom don't know--'n the teacher, say,
She never told her, on visitin' day!

What I'm fixin' to be don't seem real clear,
But it must of started afore I wuz here,
Fer I brought home an A oncet in History,
'N Mom sez to Dad, "The child may be
A Thinker, like my great Uncle Ben!"
'N Dad laughed real loud, "A Thinker? 'N then
I suppose in Spellin' he gets that P
From some poor soul back in my family tree!"
'N Mom jest knit, 'n kinda smile,
'N Dad set there, 'n after a while
He chucked my chin, "Son, yer okay
If you are a bit 'llergic to visitin' day!"
 

Hallowe'en

'Long about this time o' year, when harvest gathers in the bin,
     And ghosts and witches start to prowl around,
We wander, Indian style, through shocks the rabbits scuttle in,
     Where punkins spread their plumpness on the ground;
For we all anticipate a certain, empty-headed grin,
     And the biggest we must choose, smooth, frosty, sound,
'Cause it's time to call the kids and make a punkin face agin
     To scare away the goblins hangin' round!

It's a feat of strength to get the giant fellow to the door;
     The kids work with mysterious ado--
Then someone gets the sculpting knife, used many times before,
     For cleaning out, a scooping spoon or two,
'Cause long about this time a' year, when witches brew and black cats grin,
     And leaves are flung by giants to the ground,
I'm master of creation to a punkin face agin
     To scare away the goblins hangin' round!

Cross-legged, on the kitchen floor, we scoop and scrape him to his rind;
     Each kid must touch his "innards" where they lie
A stringy, seedy mass whose odor permeates the mind
     With peculiar ghosts of punkins long gone by,
For 'long about this time o' year when black bats wheel and spin
     Through stygian nights, and eerie wails abound,
Then it's time to call the kids and make a punkin face agin
     To scare away the goblins hangin' round!

What a tense, breathtaking moment when the last square tooth is carved,
     And the candle stands up ready for its light;
And, outside, the family huddles, even Grandma cloaked and scarved,
     To see the punkin face laugh, gold and bright;
Oh, 'long about this time o' year when harvest gathers in the bin,
     And spooks and witches tread this mortal ground,
Then it's time to call the kids, and make a punkin face agin
     To scare away the goblins hangin' round!

 
Opportunity

A day was born--
As shapeless as a lump of clay
And gray;
I did not see that it was good
And if I had not made of it
All that I could,
I never would have known it was
My day!

I'm All Right With Mom

I may not be pretty,
     My neck may be skinny;
Perhaps I'm too "nosey,''
     Or "toothy,'' or "chinny'';
My hose may be crooked,
     My bat the wrong slant;
The world sees my defects
     But "somebody'' can't!
To her I'm quite flawless,
     A beautiful sight--
Oh, I can't be all wrong when
     Mom thinks I'm all right!

How I meet the public
     May lack savoire faire
And people may whisper,
     "Hmmmm, she ain't all there!''
If I speak out my mind
     When my mind is a blank,
And my "ignorance fetters''
     Go clatter and clank,
Still, from her view of me
     Why, I'm not hopeless quite--
I can still be a champ, for
     Mom thinks I'm all right!

If I don't hit the jack pot
     Or can't pass the test,
Well, she'd guess, in the long run,
     It's all for the best;
She knows I'm no failure--
     I could, but I don't;
The world sees I'm flat
     On my face-but she won't!
She's the Rock of Gibraltar
     I get my strength from--
Why, I can't be all wrong when
     I'm all right with Mom!

The Swing

There's a lazy, dazy feeling
     In the air, everywhere,
And ambition's load is more than
     I can bear! I don't care--
Think I'll sneak out on the dishes,
     Satisfy my laggard wishes
To the rhythmic creaking, creaking
     Of the swing!

You can have your fancy glider,
     Or your fun, in the sun,
And your tilted lounging chair
     My fancies shun, everyone,
For a book, and dangling toe
     To rock me gently to and fro
With the rhythmic creaking, creaking
     Of the swing!

Remember?

Remember the time,
     Long years ago,
         When you stepped on the brakes,
             And still yelled "Whoa!''
And an automobile behaved like a toad,
And hopped and jumped all over the road;
When the leather seats were slick and cool
As a slimy rock in the swimmin' pool;
And you learned to drive in the pasture lot,
Till you finally dared to go like a shot
Down the gravel road, at "fifteen per''
While the fence posts galloped by in a blur?

Those were the days
     The slightest squeal
         Sent everyone scrambling
             To grab the wheel
And work the levers on an arc--
One for gas and one for spark,
The linen duster and flowing veil
Were standard equipment; the high foot rail
Was graced by the boots of the old quartet,
With twirled moustaches, black as jet,
Whose barber shop cadence sailed on the air
As the horseless buggy, at some lad's dare
Cut through the black of a Saturday night,
With a chugging speed, and lantern light!

In Imagination--
     Or memory--
         You can travel backward
             And almost see
The daring foursome transfer their zeal
From the barber shop to the "automobeel'';
Ah, listen well! You can hear it yet,
The harmony of the old quartet;
When the night is still, the air like wine,
There's an echo of "Sweet Adeline''--
Come! Put on your duster, let's speed away
Down that backward path, to a yesterday!

Woman's Lot

Though the lot of a woman is envied by none,
     (Or so someone says in a book),
I can curl up and yawn on a cold, frosty dawn
     While the furnace is fired up and "shook'';
I wince as his feet touch the icy-cold floor,
     But at sleep I'm a gross, shameless faker,
For I lie there and snooze, while he gropes for his shoes,
     And slips down to the shovel and shaker;
But at breakfast I give him a quick thank-you kiss,
     Then make it a little bit more,
For mixed with my love is a fond vision of
     His bare feet on a cold, frosty floor!

Club Meetin' Day

I feel sorry fer Dad sometimes,
'N he feels sorry fer me!
Can't stand up, 'n can't set down,
Fresh-waxed floors to walk aroun',
Can't do nothin' but sniff 'n smell
The cake 'n candy 'n nuts--oh, well,
Dad sez to be safe, jest keep outta the way,
Fer it's nip 'n tuck, on Club Meetin' Day!

Tain't only one day--it's 'bout a week
Mom stares into space, 'n you gotta speak
A dozen times, cause she's busy countin'
Who all's acomin', 'n jest the amount, 'n
What chairs they need to set real good,
'N Dad sez, in fun, well sir, he would
Git a straight chair fer Missuz Rowe
Cause she's all upholstered so good, anyhow!
But Mom frowns 'n jerks her head my way--
To her nothin's funny, 'bout Club Meetin' Day!

Ya kin tell the minute you step in the door
What's up-it jest ain't home any more;
Nen Dad peeks in, 'n sez, "Oh, ho!
Gittin' ready to entertain Club So and So!
What a lovely hat!'' he mocks. "Mrs. Gate,
Did you buy it, or did it accumulate?''
Mom sez, "Alright, you two have yer fun
But jest remember, I'm the one
Who's blamed er praised for our social front!''
Dad winks at me with kind of a grunt,
'N sez, "Come, Willyum--outta the way!
It's do or die for Club Meetin' Day!''

Jest one thing about it-'n worth it, too--
The day after Club Meetin', I'm tellin' you,
In Mom's 'pinion, 'n words, 'n face,
Wy, me and Dad jest owns the place,
'N Mom, oh, she can't do too much
Of laughin', 'n huggin', 'n cookin', 'n such!
We set where we want to, 'n walk aroun',
'N git done with somethin', 'n jest lay'er down--
Wy, that one day after will more'n pay
Fer all the fixin' fer Club Meetin' Day!

Friends

Advice on popularity
     From loneliness may free one
If one remembers, 'to win friends
     You simply need to be one'!

Torch Bearers

Our thankfulness should live and burn,
     An ever steady glow
Of torches to rebuild the fires
     Where faith has dwindled low;
To warm anew the burned out hearths,
     And pledge ourselves to be
The tenders of a fire for those
     Less fortunate than we!

Cadiz-On A Busy Night

Two hot dogs, a bowl of chili,
Junior, Sis, and Vern and Billy,
Six hamburgers, pink ice cream,
Windows glazed with frost and steam,
Car horns blare, the door swings wide,
Talk and laughter swirl inside;
Soda-pop and candy bars,
Kids on foot, and kids in cars--
It's time turned backward in its flight
To Cadiz-on a busy night!

First the team that practiced ball
Leaves the gym; you bear 'em call,
And Junior pounds in with the rest,
His still wet hair a frosty crest--
I scold him for those quick, cold showers,
'N he laughs, "You can't hurt a Bowers!''
My, right at first I had my trouble,
Thinking I was seeing double--
Sis was Vern and Vern was Sis,
And it went on at length like this
Till finally the truth soaked in
That each one was the other's twin;
Vern dropped out of the social whirl,
Steady Vern and his steady girl,
And Sis--sometimes late in the night,
With Cadiz dark and locked up tight,
There'd come a tap on our bedroom glass,
Then, "Hey, Arn--Arn, how 'bout some gas?''
And one of us with a sleepy groan,
Stuck the keys out the window, "Here, get your own!''
(Those busy, peaceful, happy days
Are treasured memories always!)

Then, in comes Bill, singing off note,
Muscles bulging his good suit coat,
Slicked down hair, and flashing eye,
Vigorous, laughing--but, bye and bye,
He comes back, sheepish, to maybe grin
And say, "You gotta safety pin?''
Yes, all disheveled, he comes back,
One eye turning a telltale black;
"Fighting?'' I asked, for his shirt was split.
And he laughs and says, "Aw, a little bit!''
And boasts, when I frown upon his eye,
"Say, you oughtta see the other guy!''
(Ah, Junior, Billy, Vern and Sis,
Would that it were once more like this!)

We'd gladly take you back tonight,
Unlock the door, turn on the light,
And get the skillets spitting hot,
And the pickles sliced-then, like as not,
All out of breath, there Junior'd be
With his ready smile, "Fix two fer me!''
Then Vern from work for a bowl of chili,
And two hot dogs for laughing Billy,
And, chair atilt, is Sis again,
With his half-shy ways, and bashful grin,
And he'd say, polite, in his own slow speech,
"A cheese 'n liver loaf--two of each!''

Those carefree days we did not guess
With some of these our happiness,
Security, and future lay!
And me? I'm glad that I can say
I laughed with them--I'm proud I knew
The gallant sons of folks like you!

The Fellow Who Fails To Try

It isn't the fellow who tries and fails
     For whom you should pine and cry;
Your tears and lament would be rightly spent
     On the fellow who fails to try!

Now the plans you make that run afoul
     May be blessings in disguise,
But no success shall ever bless
     The fellow who never tries!

Why, a failure may be a turning point,
     Or a steppingstone to the sky,
But no failure's so great as the sorry fate
     Of the fellow who fails to try!

Five Year Old

My Mamma says I talk too much,
     But I don't think I do;
So many things are int'r'sting
     I have to talk, don't you?

Sometimes she says, "Don't interrupt!''
     And sometimes, "Please don't shout!
Let's have some peace and quiet,
     Why, you'll I have your tongue worn out!''

But when I do sit down and read,
     Or play a game real quiet,
She puts the candy all away,
     And cuts down on my diet.

And smells my breath, and feels my head,
     And sticks my tongue out long--
Seems like when I behave myself
     She thinks there's something wrong.

Or when I whisper to my dolls,
     As busy as can be,
She maybe picks me up and never
     Thinks she bothers me!

She says she's lonely when I'm still
     Or when I'm gone or such--
I wonder if she means it when
     She says, "You talk too much!''

The Nativity

And it came to pass in those days
And there went out a decree
That all the world should be taxed,
And from Nazareth, of Galilee,
Joseph went up with Mary,
    Great with child;
And so it was delivery came
To her in Bethlehem,
And from the crowded inns, "No room!''
Was oft retold to them!
And she brought forth a first-born son,
A manger for his bed,
And swaddling clothes made holy
By the halo round his head,
Because there was no room--
No room for Christ the Savior's birth
    At the inn!
And there abided shepherds in the field
Who watched their flock by night,
And lo! The angel of the Lord
Came in a burst of light
And round about them shone
The radiant glory of the Lord
And they were sore afraid!
"Fear not!'' the angel said.
"I bring you tidings of great joy!
It is God's word;
For unto you this day is born
A Savior, Christ the Lord!
And ye shall know His swaddling clothes,
A manger for his bed--
The halo of Divinity
Shines round the Christ Child's head!''
And, suddenly, a heavenly host
In light appeared, and then,
"Glory to God in the highest!
Peace on earth! Good will toward men''
And it came to pass the heavens stilled,
And the angels ceased to sing,
And the shepherds to each other said,
"Let us go see this thing
The Lord has thus made known to us even to Bethlehem.''
In haste they came, and then made known abroad
About the Savior's birth;
And, guided by a star, came forth
The wise men of the earth,
Worshiping him, rejoicing with great joy:
Gold, frankincense and myrrh presented him,
And the shepherds to their flock returned
With the birth known unto them
Glorifying and praising God
For this night in Bethlehem!

Kinda Wisht I Didn't Though

Christmas don't seem right now--sence I know;
Somehow, I kinda wisht I didn't though!
Wy, when I heard tuz make b'lieve, inside
I sorter froze up, nen I run to hide
'N give this thing a think, 'n I sure tried,
But if I 'member right, I mighta cried;
Course, I'm growed up all year, but Christmas, gee!
I'd like to b'lieve in Santy Clause, 'n be
A kid agin for oncet-but now I know,
'N I jest kinda wisht I didn't though!

Course, I'm most eight, but oh, some years ago
When I wuz jest a little kid, I know
How in the 'partment store on Santy's knee
I 'member how it kinda 'peared to me
His whiskers looked like some I mighta seen
Down at the ton cent store on Hallowe'en;
I 'member, too, how Dad stood close to hear
What all I told that guy I want that year--
Jest think bow they pertend--'n now I know,
But, gee, I kinda wisht I didn't though!

I jest decided, this year, I'd pertend
'N make that Christmas list I allus send
To Santy Claus, so's mebbe then my Dad
Kin have a good time like he allus had
Adressin' in that red suit on the shelf--
('Tother day I tried it on, myself),
Cause when yer Dad gets up 'round THIRTY-FIVE
He'd orter have some fun while he's alive!
'N I'll pertend I don't, but course I'll know--
'N--well--I kinda wisht I didn't though!

Say, it'd sure be swell if it wuz true,
'N there'uz a guy to bring yer toys to you
On Christmas Eve, 'n all--well, criminee!
I never thought of that! Yessir, well, gee!
There'll be the Santy Claus I've allus had,
The rightest guy there is--'n it's my Dad!
Wy, I feel good now! Ever-thing's alright!
But jest so's Dad kin have his fun that night
I'll "make b'lieve'' this year, 'at I don't know
Cause--well--I kinda wisht I didn't though!

Yuletide

An illusion disturbs me, hauntingly,
     That we met once, long ago,
And knew in a moment of waywardness
     The magic of mistletoe;
The mistletoe fades with the season's end
     But ever an afterglow
Envelops and warms mind, heart, eyes, lips,
     With the magic of mistletoe!

No Christmas

"No Christmas this year,'' did somebody say?
Then what's all the fightin' for, anyway?
No secrets, no spellin', no Santy Claus suit,
No stockin's to stuff, like a misshapen boot;
No place in the house for a big Christmas tree;
No mistletoe, either? Well, it seems to me
When we forfeit a Christmas then I'll be bound
If the enemy ain't about won the first round!

Now, if I wuz a feller goin' to war,
Why, Christmas would be what I'm fightin' for--
It's a lot like a present passed on, ribbon-tied,
With the best of each one of us done up inside;
And while I was gone, I'd sure bate to hear,
"There won't be a Christmas at our house this year!''

We're gonna have Christmas-there ain't nothin' better
To cheer up a boy than a Mom and Dad letter
A-tellin' of home, and here's part what I'd say,
"Dear Son, we sure missed you this Christmas day;
We put up the tree where it always stood--
Yer Mom's Christmas dinner tasted real good--
The children were shoutin' about like they did
A few years ago, Son, when you was a kid!
We'll be awful glad when you boys win the war,
And we'll keep up the Christmases you're fightin' for!''

No Christmas this year? No holiest day?
Then what's all the fightin' about, anyway?

The Call

As plain as day, that night she heard him call,
And in her robe, slipped softly down the hall
To his old room, where as a boy he dreamed
And dreaming, sometimes called. That night it seemed
So clearly he cried out; she huddled there
Beside his empty bed: prayer after prayer
Formed on her lips--formed there in endless chant,
"You watch him, God; you care for him! I can't!''

His letter finally came--a boyish scrawl--
"Dear Mom,'' it said, "At last I've seen the brawl!
I'll be laid up a while. Don't worry, though,
I've got a darn good nurse, and say, you know
The night I cracked up, well, when I came to
I thought my bed was home, the nurse was you!
Say, Mom, salute that symbol when you pass--
The Red Cross pasted on our front door glass!''
She wept with hope, her band at brow, aslant,
"God, have them answer when he calls--I can't!''

Life

Are you ever confounded by "things'' as they are?
The depth of the ocean, the height of a star,
The intricate forces of death and of birth,
This mad, whirling atom--this fragment called earth!
The beautiful, leavening secret, the soul,
The span of a lifetime, the ultimate goal!

War Bride

Why did you look back? We'd said goodbyes,
And tossed off loving, bantering replies
To curb the breathless moments of locked glance,
Savagely stripped forlorn of their romance;
Whether that cry was mine, I do not know,
Or if it came from sweethearts long ago
Whose lips, like mine, framed words they dared not show,
And through "Godspeed!'' wept out, "Don't go! Don't go!''

If you had not looked back you'd not have known
The smile I wore for you was not my own
So you'd remember happiness, always--
The life complete we lived these several days!
Of course, we knew our heaven couldn't last,
That's why we lived it fully, bard, and fast;
But, oh, the feverish days we had were fun--
My rosary--I'll count them one by one!

I'll not forget the day you got your call
And we raced, hand in band, to City Hall
Just as we raced in play in childhood days,
And later, sauntered through that muddled maze
Of growing up. Then, suddenly, love's flame
Transformed our lives into a subtle game,
And now, I'm yours, you're mine, and oh, my dear,
Help me be brave, if you must leave me here

To go back to the house we had, alone,
Within those barren walls where love was known
Whose windows boast of potted flowers, gay,
That we put there, as if we meant to stay!
Were you asleep, or did you feign to be,
The nights I lay and held you close to me,
Wide-eyed and fearful, reaching out to pray
For strength, for peace, for just another day?

How mad the nights that you were wakeful, too,
And passion old as Eve burned ever new;
And, afterward, we'd double vigil keep,
Grudging the precious hours lost to steep.
Those talking walks we took were our estate
As man and wife, exalted, flaunting fate,
Building a future where no future stood,
Turning our groping minds toward peace and good!

Oh, you should not have looked and seen my tears,
Or known, beneath my faith, I harbored fears,
Or felt reluctance toward my country's call,
But, dear, I'm just a woman, after all.

(Dear God, why can't this demon scalpel shine,
Keen, sharp and quick to sever love like mine
Instead of tearing, wrenching flesh from flesh?
No anaesthesia to dull the pain,
An operation where there is no blood,
But streaming, tortured eyes and twisted lips
To taste the dregs of war-flung filth and mud!)

Go now, and don't took back! You should not know
My traitorous lips have wept, "Don't go! Don't go!''

View

As long as I have eyes to see
     It would be an effrontery
To say my country asks of me,
     More than I of my country!

Gold Star

I stood in unbelief--the buildings swayed--
I think I cried aloud, or maybe prayed;
She was my friend--I loved her children, too.
"What can I do?'' I thought. "What can I do!''
There in the street I shivered, stunned and cold,
When the white star in her window turned to gold!

Impulsively, I ran inside; I thought
To share the sorrow that this war bad brought,
To check her wild sobs, somehow stay her grief,
But what I found again was past belief!
Her eyes held anguish, still she was unbowed,
The tears she shed were quiet ones and proud--
She buttered toast and fed her ten-year old
When the white star in her window turned to gold!

I cringed at sounds of weeping-it was I!
Here at her knee I dropped my head to cry;
I couldn't bear to watch her bravery
And know her son had died for such as we--
She forged ahead! But I felt worn and old
When the white star in her window turned to gold!

She Gave a Man

You say you've skimped and given all you can?
Well, see that woman there? She gave a man!

What sacrifice! You bought a bond--
You made some clothes to send across the pond,
That rubber hose you might have spliced some day,
That length of pipe you finally gave away;
You even parted with a pot or pan,
But see that woman there? She gave a man!

"My tires are thin,'' you whine. "How can I ride?
My house could stand a speck more heat inside;
Meat's mighty scarce; lard, too, and butter's high;
Sometimes I can't buy what I want to buy!
The sugar's low, we've had to skimp and can--''
Wait! See that woman there? She gave a man!

She gave her man--a husband or a son--
And all he asks is food, clothes, and a gun
To keep the blood from flowing past your door!
How can you be deaf when he cries, "More!''
Think, have you done and given all you can?
Well, see that woman there? She gave a man!

One Pin

I know a brawny sailor lad--
     (Ah, how his charms entrance!)
I've often held him in my arms
     When ONE PIN held his pants!

Mr. Mail Man

Wait up, Mr. Mail Man,
     Is there any mail for me?
I saw you from the window
     And ran across to see;
There is? It says "official!''
     Oh, no don't let that be!
Not that today-not final word
     From Washington, D. C.!
Please read it, Mr. Mail Man,
     My hands are shaking so--
I'm sorry to seem cowardly
     But I'm afraid to know!
He's coming home? He's safe! A medal?
     Mr. Mail Man, that's my boy!
It's silly to be crying
     For I could shout with joy,
But there's such a burst of glory
     When my heart lay like a clod--
Oh, thank you, Mr. Mail Man,
     And thank You, thank You, God!

On Leave

There in the door he stood--my sailor lad--
Gallant and eager, broadened shoulders clad
In navy blue. His eyes were proud and glad!

We held each other close, as loved ones do,
And all the world seemed one expanse of blue
Glazed with the tears we both were laughing through.

On second leave, he came home dressed in white,
Well trained and brawny, ready for the fight;
We laughed and cried--and now I'll pray tonight!

His Bike

He treasured it then, I cherish it now;
He's far away, and yet, somehow
While its tires are flat, its seat is worn,
Its corner dusty and forlorn,
I can stand there a moment and feel once again
His little-boy presence, the happy time when
He rode on his bicycle up to the day
He strode to the basement and put it away--
Ah, he put it there; his boyhood has passed
And cobwebs have reached out to anchor it fast!

I cannot disturb it, tho dust gathers there,
For dim in its spokes are his eyes and his hair
And the laugh on his lips, and the vigor he had
As he pedaled and whistled "hello'' to his dad-
I didn't know, then, that there'd come a time
When the basement stairs would be hard to climb
Through a blur of tears--when a little boy's hands
Seemed to clutch at mine--there his bicycle stands,
And chains forged of memory, with strength unsurpassed,
Are the cobwebs that patterned and anchored it fast!

I Wantta Be a Civilian

What do you wantta be, soldier boy,
     When you come home to stay?
We made you a lotta promises
     That morning you marched away--
Would you be the president of a bank
     Or maybe a wealthy scion,
The head of a corporation, or
     A playboy, or social lion?
And the soldier boy, he sez to me,
     "You can have your bank and your million,
But, Brother, what do I wantta be?
     I wantta be a CIVILIAN!''

What do you wantta be, sailor boy,
     When you come home for good?
Compared to you, we've not done much
     But wait, and knock on wood;
Are you wishin' for maybe a big man's job
     With a desk, and authority,
And a flower in your buttonhole,
     And a yacht? Well, he sez to me,
"Look, Buddy, I'm speakin' for myself,
     And I'm only one of a million
That's fightin' for what I wantta be--
     Brother, I wantta be a CIVILIAN!''

That's funny-he wants a job like mine,
     And I never thought it was much;
Each morning I leave, each night I go home
     To my wife, and my baby, and such--
There's hedges to trim, the furnace to fire,
     The garden, the yard to keep right,
And sometimes a show, and a dish of ice cream,
     And shopping on Saturday night;
Hey, what am I sayin'? That sounds pretty fine!
     Sure it's worth a lot more than a million--
They know what they want when those stout fellas shout,
     "Brother, I wantta be a CIVILIAN!''

The Flag

Wave proudly, glorious Old Glory,
     For freedom won, and freedom kept;
You are the song, you are the story
     Of stout hearts, laughter, fond tears wept;
Your white bars shall be clean, your red
     A heritage of heroes gone,
And heroes who have yet to go
     To noble graves; Wave on, and on!

See how she's purling in the breeze!
Her stars are states, her states are these
Who fight today-somehow you know
From Indiana, Idaho;
From California up to Maine
Each knows the sacrificial stain
Of blood, whose flowing shall unite
The yellow, red, the black, and white,
Above whose heads shall proudly wave
The flag their lives were given to save!
Today, Old Glory, you are blest;
Today, brave fingers may be pressed
To quivering lips, who at your sight
Salute, and kneel to pray tonight!
The breeze which swept your bars this day
May somehow, somewhere far away
Sweep on through an uncharted sky
To stir your folds where quiet lie
Our heroes in some foreign soil
And lift their souls from warring toil;
Give them, Old Glory, your free flight
To journey homeward and unite
With that they sacrificed to free--
America, and liberty!

Wave on, Old Glory, float aloft
     From porch, or pole, or steeple--
You are America! You are
     The freedom of a people!
Lives have been lost! Lives will be lived,
     The future heir the story
Of fighting hearts who kept unsoiled
     The glory of Old Glory!