The Path to Home. Edgar A. Guest

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, be this my creed:

       I am on earth to fill a need.

Story-Time

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      "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 on 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 are we 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.

The Mother Watch

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      She never closed her eyes in sleep till we were all in bed;

       On party nights till we came home she often sat and read.

       We little thought about it then, when we were young and gay,

       How much the mother worried when we children were away.

       We only knew she never slept when we were out at night,

       And that she waited just to know that we'd come home all right.

      Why, sometimes when we'd stayed away till one or two or three,

       It seemed to us that mother heard the turning of the key;

       For always when we stepped inside she'd call and we'd reply,

       But we were all too young back then to understand just why.

       Until the last one had returned she always kept a light,

       For mother couldn't sleep until she'd kissed us all good night.

      She had to know that we were safe before she went to rest;

       She seemed to fear the world might harm the ones she loved the best.

       And once she said: "When you are grown to women and to men,

       Perhaps I'll sleep the whole night through; I may be different then."

       And so it seemed that night and day we knew a mother's care—

       That always when we got back home we'd find her waiting there.

      Then came the night that we were called to gather round her bed:

       "The children all are with you now," the kindly doctor said.

       And in her eyes there gleamed again the old-time tender light

       That told she had been waiting just to know we were all right.

       She smiled the old-familiar smile, and prayed to God to keep

       Us safe from harm throughout the years, and then she went to sleep.

Faces

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      I look into the faces of the people passing by,

       The glad ones and the sad ones, and the lined with misery,

       And I wonder why the sorrow or the twinkle in the eye;

       But the pale and weary faces are the ones that trouble me.

      I saw a face this morning, and time was when it was fair;

       Youth had brushed it bright with color in the distant long ago,

       And the goddess of the lovely once had kept a temple there,

       But the cheeks were pale with grieving and the eyes were dull with woe.

      Who has done this thing I wondered; what has wrought the ruin here?

       Why these sunken cheeks and pallid where the roses once were pink?

       Why has beauty fled her palace; did some vandal hand appear?

       Did her lover prove unfaithful or her husband take to drink?

      Once the golden voice of promise whispered sweetly in her ears;

       She was born to be a garden where the smiles of love might lurk;

       Now the eyes that shone like jewels are but gateways for her tears,

       And she takes her place among us, toilers early bound for work.

      Is it fate that writes so sadly, or the cruelty of man?

       What foul deed has marred the parchment of a life so fair as this?

       Who has wrecked this lovely temple and destroyed the Maker's plan,

       Raining blows on cheeks of beauty God had fashioned just to kiss?

      Oh, the pale and weary faces of the people that I see

       Are the ones that seem to haunt me, and I pray to God above

       That such cruel desolation shall not ever come to be

       Stamped forever in the future