Home

IT takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home,

A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes have t' roam

Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye lef' behind,

An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus on yer mind.

It don't make any differunce how rich ye get t' be,

How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great yer luxury;

It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a king,

Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped round everything.

Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up in a minute;

Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin' in it;

Within the walls there's got t' be some babies born, and then

Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women good, an' men;

And gradjerly as time goes on, ye find ye wouldn't part

With anything they ever used -- they've grown into yer heart:

The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the little shoes they wore

Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumb-marks on the door.

Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t' sit an' sigh

An' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know that Death is nigh;

An' in the stillness o' the night t' see Death's angel come,

An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave her sweet voice dumb.

Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an'when yer tears are dried,

Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an' sanctified;

An' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant memories

O' her that was an' is no more -- ye can't escape from these.

Ye've got t' sing an' dance fer years, ye've got t' romp an' play,

An' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em each day;

Even the roses 'round the porch must blossom year by year

Afore they 'come a part o' ye, suggestin' someone dear

Who used t' love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em jes t' run

The way they do, so's they would get the early mornin' sun;

Ye've got t' love each brick an' stone from cellar up t' dome:

It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it home.

Edgar Guest

Raisin Pie

THERE'S a heap of pent-up goodness in the yellow bantam corn,

And I sort o' like to linger round a berry patch at morn;

Oh, the Lord has set our table with a stock o' things to eat

An' there's just enough o' bitter in the blend to cut the sweet,

But I run the whole list over, an' it seems somehow that I

Find the keenest sort o' pleasure in a chunk o' raisin pie.

There are pies that start the water circulatin' in the mouth;

There are pies that wear the flavor of the warm an' sunny south;

Some with oriental spices spur the drowsy appetite

An' just fill a fellow's being with a thrill o' real delight;

But for downright solid goodness that comes drippin' from the sky

There is nothing quite the equal of a chunk o' raisin pie.

I'm admittin' tastes are diff'runt, I'm not settin' up myself

As the judge an' final critic of the good things on the shelf.

I'm sort o' payin' tribute to a simple joy on earth,

Sort o' feebly testifyin' to its lasting charm an' worth,

An' I'll hold to this conclusion till it comes my time to die,

That there's no dessert that's finer than a chunk o' raisin pie.

Edgar Guest

Be a Friend

BE a friend. You don't need money;

Just a disposition sunny;

Just the wish to help another

Get along some way or other;

Just a kindly hand extended

Out to one who's unbefriended;

Just the will to give or lend,

This will make you someone's friend.

Be a friend. You don't need glory.

Friendship is a simple story.

Pass by trifling errors blindly,

Gaze on honest effort kindly,

Cheer the youth who's bravely trying,

Pity him who's sadly sighing;

Just a little labor spend

On the duties of a friend.

Be a friend. The pay is bigger

(Though not written by a figure)

Than is earned by people clever

In what's merely self-endeavor.

You'll have friends instead of neighbors

For the profits of your labors;

You'll be richer in the end

Than a prince, if you're a friend.

Edgar Guest

The Path to Home

THERE'S the mother at the doorway, and the children at the gate,

And the little parlor windows with the curtains white and straight.

There are shaggy asters blooming in the bed that lines the fence,

And the simplest of the blossoms seems of mighty consequence.

Oh, there isn't any mansion underneath God's starry dome

That can rest a weary pilgrim like the little place called home.

Men have sought for gold and silver; men have dreamed at night of fame;

In the heat of youth they've struggled for achievement's honored name;

But the selfish crowns are tinsel, and their shining jewels paste,

And the wine of pomp and glory soon grows bitter to the taste.

For there's never any laughter howsoever far you roam,

Like the laughter of the loved ones in the happiness of home.

Edgar Guest

Our House

WE play at our house and have all sorts of fun,

An' there's always a game when supper is done;

An' at our house there's marks on the walls an' the stairs,

An' some terrible scratches on some of the chairs;

An' ma says that our house is surely a fright,

But pa and I say that our house is all right.

At our house we laugh an' we sing an' we shout,

An' whirl all the chairs and the tables about,

An' I rassle my pa an' I get him down too,

An' he's all out of breath when the fightin' is through;

An' ma says our house is surely a sight,

But pa an' I say that our house is all right.

I've been to houses with pa where I had

To sit in a chair like a good little lad,

An' there wasn't a mark on the walls an' the chairs,

An' the stuff that we have couldn't come up to theirs;

An' pa said to ma that for all of their joy

He wouldn't change places and give up his boy.

They never have races nor rassles nor fights,

Coz they have no children to play with at nights;

An' their walls are all clean and their curtains hang straight,

An' everything's shiny an' right up to date;

But pa says with all of its racket an' fuss,

He'd rather by far live at our house with us.

Edgar Guest

A Plea

GOD grant me these: the strength to do

Some needed service here;

The wisdom to be brave and true;

The gift of vision clear,

That in each task that comes to me

Some purpose I may plainly see.

God teach me to believe that I

Am stationed at a post,

Although the humblest 'neath the sky,

Where I am needed most.

And that, at last, if I do well

My humble services will tell.

God grant me faith to stand on guard,

Uncheered, unspoke, alone,

And see behind such duty hard

My service to the throne.

Whate'er my task, this be my creed:

I am on earth to fill a need.

Edgar Guest

Story-Time

"TELL us a story," comes the cry

From little lips when nights are cold,

And in the grate the flames leap high.

"Tell us a tale of pirates bold,

Or fairies hiding in the glen,

Or of a ship that's wrecked at sea."

I fill my pipe, and there and then

Gather the children round my knee.

I give them all a role to play--

No longer are they youngsters small,

And I, their daddy, turning gray;

We are adventurers, one and all.

We journey forth as Robin Hood

In search of treasure, or to do

Some deed of daring, or of good,

Our hearts are ever brave and true.

We take a solemn oath to be

Defenders of the starry flag;

We brave the winter's stormy sea,

Or climb the rugged mountain crag,

To battle to the death with those

Who would defame our native land;

We pitch our camp among the snows

Or in the tropics burning sand.

We rescue maidens, young and fair,

Held captive long in prison towers;

We slay the villain in his lair,

For we're possessed of magic powers.

And though we desperately fight,

When by our foes we are beset,

We always triumph for the right;

We have not lost a battle yet.

It matters not how far we stray,

Nor where our battle lines may be,

We never get so far away

That we must spend a night at sea.

It matters not how high we climb,

How many foes our pathway block,

We always conquer just in time

To go to bed at 9 o'clock.

Edgar Guest

Lines For a Flag Raising Ceremony

FULL many a flag the breeze has kissed;

Through ages long the morning sun

Has risen over the early mist

The flags of men to look upon.

And some were red against the sky,

And some with colors true were gay,

And some in shame were born to die,

For Flags of hate must pass away.

Such symbols fall as men depart,

Brief is the reign of arrant might;

The vicious and the vile at heart

Give way in time before the right.

A flag is nothing in itself;

It but reflects the lives of men;

And they who lived and toiled for pelf

Went out as vipers in a den.

God cleans the sky from time to time

Of every tyrant flag that flies,

And every brazen badge of crime

Falls to the ground and swiftly dies.

Proud kings are mouldering in the dust;

Proud flags of ages past are gone;

Only the symbols of the just

Have lived and shall keep living on.

So long as we shall serve the truth,

So long as honor stamps us fair,

Each age shall pass unto its youth

Old Glory proudly flying there!

But if we fail our splendid past,

If we prove faithless, weak and base,

That age shall be our banner's last;

A fairer flag shall take its place.

This flag we fling unto the skies

Is but an emblem of our hearts,

And when our love of freedom dies,

Our banner with our race departs.

Full many a flag the breezes kiss,

Full many a flag the sun has known,

But none so bright and fair as this;

None quite so splendid as our own!

This tells the world that we are men

Who cling to manhood's ways and truth;

It is our soul's great voice and pen,

The strength of age, the guide of youth,

And it shall ever hold the sky

So long as we shall keep our trust;

But if our love of right shall die

Our Flag shall sink into the dust.

Edgar Guest

Picture Books

I HOLD the finest picture-books

Are woods an' fields an' runnin' brooks;

An' when the month o' May has done

Her paintin', an' the mornin' sun

Is lightin' just exactly right

Each gorgeous scene for mortal sight,

I steal a day from toil an' go

To see the springtime's picture show.

It's everywhere I choose to tread--

Perhaps I'll find a violet bed

Half hidden by the larger scenes,

Or group of ferns, or living greens,

So graceful an' so fine, I swear

That angels must have placed them there

To beautify the lonely spot

That mortal man would have forgot.

What hand can paint a picture book

So marvelous as a runnin' brook?

It matters not what time o' day

You visit it, the sunbeams play

Upon it just exactly right,

The mysteries of God to light.

No human brush could ever trace

A droopin' willow with such grace!

Page after page, new beauties rise

To thrill with gladness an' surprise

The soul of him who drops his care

And seeks the woods to wander there.

Birds, with the angel gift o' song,

Make music for him all day long;

An' nothin' that is base or mean

Disturbs the grandeur of the scene.

There is no hint of hate or strife;

The woods display the joy of life,

An' answer with a silence fine

The scoffer's jeer at power divine.

When doubt is high an' faith is low,

Back to the woods an' fields I go,

An' say to violet and tree:

"No mortal hand has fashioned thee."

Edgar Guest

What Father Knows

MY father knows the proper way

The nation should be run;

He tells us children every day

Just what should now be done.

He knows the way to fix the trusts,

He has a simple plan;

But if the furnace needs repairs

We have to hire a man.

My father, in a day or two,

Could land big thieves in jail;

There's nothing that he cannot do,

He knows no word like "fail."

"Our confidence" he would restore,

Of that there is no doubt;

But if there is a chair to mend

We have to send it out.

All public questions that arise

He settles on the spot;

He waits not till the tumult dies,

But grabs it while its hot.

In matters of finance he can

Tell Congress what to do;

But, O, he finds it hard to meet

His bills as they fall due.

It almost makes him sick to read

The things law-makers say;

Why, father's just the man they need;

He never goes astray.

All wars he'd very quickly end,

As fast as I can write it;

But when a neighbor starts a fuss

'Tis mother has to fight it.

In conversation father can

Do many wondrous things;

He's built upon a wiser plan

Than presidents or kings.

He knows the ins and outs of each

And every deep transaction;

We look to him for theories,

But look to ma for action.

Edgar Guest

Back Home

GLAD to be back home again,

Where abide the friendly men;

Glad to see the same old scenes

And the little house that means

All the joys the soul has treasured--

Glad to be where smiles aren't measured,

Where I've blended with the gladness

All the heart has known of sadness,

Where some long-familiar steeple

Marks my town of friendly people.

Though it's fun to go a-straying

Where the bands are nightly playing

And the throngs of men and women

Drain the cup of pleasure brimmin',

I am glad when it is over

That I've ceased to play the Rover.

And when once the train starts chugging

Towards the children I'll be hugging,

All my thoughts and dreams are set there;

Fast enough I cannot get there.

Guess I wasn't meant for bright lights,

For the blaze of red and white lights,

For the throngs that seem to smother

In their selfishness, each other;

For whenever I've been down there,

Tramped the noisy, blatant town there,

Always in a week I've started

Yearning, hungering, heavy-hearted,

For the home town and its spaces

Lit by fine and friendly faces.

Like to be where men about me

Do not look on me to doubt me;

Where I know the men and women,

Know why tears some eyes are dimmin',

Know the good folks an' the bad folks

An' the glad folks an' the sad folks;

Where we live with one another,

Meanin' something to each other.

An' I'm glad to see the steeple,

Where the crowds aren't merely people.

Edgar Guest

The Dead Return

THE dead return. I know they do;

The glad smile may have passed from view,

The ringing voice that cheered us so

In that remembered long ago

Be stilled, and yet in sweeter ways

It speaks to us throughout our days.

The kindly father comes again

To guide us through the haunts of men,

And always near, their sons to greet

Are lingering the mothers sweet.

About us wheresoe'er we tread

Hover the spirits of our dead;

We cannot see them as we could

In bygone days, when near they stood

And shared the joys and griefs that came,

But they are with us just the same.

They see us as we plod along,

And proudly smile when we are strong,

And sigh and grieve the selfsame way

When thoughtlessly we go astray.

I sometimes think it hurts the dead

When into sin and shame we're led,

And that they feel a thrill divine

When we've accomplished something fine.

And sometimes thoughts that come at night

Seem more like messages that might

Have whispered been by one we love,

Whose spirit has been called above.

So wise the counsel, it must be

That all we are the dead can see.

The dead return. They come to share

Our laughter and our bit of care;

They glory, as they used to do,

When we are splendid men and true,

In all the joy that we have won,

And they are proud of what we've done.

They suffer when we suffer woe;

All things about us here they know.

And though we never see them here

Their spirits hover very near.

Edgar Guest

The Common Joys

THESE joys are free to all who live

The rich and poor, the great and low:

The charms which kindness has to give,

The smiles which friendship may bestow,

The honor of a well-spent life,

The glory of a purpose true,

High courage in the stress of strife,

And peace when every task is through.

Nor class nor caste nor race nor creed,

Nor greater might can take away

The splendor of an honest deed.

Who nobly serves from day to day

Shall walk the road of life with pride,

With friends who recognize his worth,

For never are these joys denied

Unto the humblest man on earth.

Not all may rise to world-wide fame,

Not all may gather fortune's gold,

Not all life's luxuries may claim;

In differing ways success is told.

But all may know the peace of mind

Which comes from service brave and true;

The poorest man can still be kind,

And nobly live till life is through.

These joys abound for one and all:

The pride of fearing no man's scorn,

Of standing firm, where others fall,

Of bearing well what must be borne.

He that shall do an honest deed

Shall win an honest deed's rewards;

For these, no matter race or creed,

Life unto every man affords.

Edgar Guest