Bear^lbjfatfjer SAMUEL FRANCIS WOOLARD Copyright 1910 by The Goldsroith-Woolard Publishing Co. Wichita, Kansas, U. S. A. Entered at Stationers Hall, London, England 50th Thousand THE GOLDSMITH-WOOLARD PUBLISHING COMPANY Wichita, Kansas, U. S. A. The McCormick-Armstrong Press Wichita, U. S. A. ^/&i? 9 9MM When you are a father, and you hear your children's little voices, you will feel that those little ones are akin to every drop in your veins; that they are the very flower of your life and you will cleave so closely to them that you seem to feel every movement that they make. Since I have been a father I have come to understand God. He is everywhere in the world because the whole world comes from Him. Pere Goriot Balzac IN CERE in the belief that the fathers were not receiving their share of affectionate praise I offered prizes for the best expressions in prose and verse hopeful that a new senti- ment might be created which would result in making happier and better fathers and more appreciative sons and daughters. I have confidence in the final result. The judges were the following well known literary folk: Mrs. William Y. Mono an, Hutchinson, Kansas. Mr. Charles Moreau Harger, Abilene, Kansas. Mr. Henry J. Allen, Wichita, Kansas. There were five prizes in each class, and the awards were: IN PROSE First. "A Psalm of Fatherhood," by Cora G. Lewis, of Kins- ley, Kansas. Second. "Father," by Orman C. Ehebt, Wichita, Kansas. Third. "Father," by E. A. Dobsbt, Wichita, Kansas. Fourth. "To My Father's Memory," by Warren E. Comstock, Kansas City, Mo. Fifth. "A Little More Love for Father," by Alma Pendextbr Hatdbn, Rochester, New York. IN VERSE First. "Father," by Melvina Genoa Morris, Holton, Kansas. Second. "Faithful Father," by Mrs. Celesta Ball Mat, Black- well, Oklahoma. Third. "Father," by Edqar A. Guest, Detroit, Michigan. Fourth. "To My Father," Miss Florence Gilmobb, Columbus, Ohio. Fifth. "He Walks With Me," Miss Mae Pereorine. La Lux, New Mexico. I am grateful to all those who contributed thought on the subject. The great number of responses was earnest proof that many were of the same belief as myself, and I wish it were possible to publish a larger number, as all were worthy and showed the deep feeling of every writer, while doing honor to themselves in thus honoring father. Samuel Francis Woolard FATHER Upon his shoulders weigh the stern demands Of men and nations; but erect he stands, Finn and unfaltering. A sovereign he, and to no royal hands Doth servile tribute bring. Yet, see him bow, one threshold passing o'er, While all his pride's apparel falls before Young eyes, who greet him "Father," at the door Where Love is king. Melvina Genoa Morris FATHER Author of my being, the furnisher of my name, the protector of my infancy, the counsellor of my youth, the advisor of my manhood; he who best understood my frailties who was proudest of my successes and most sorrowful in my reverses; a friend without self interest, and a guide whose leading was always toward the right my father. E. A. Dorset FATHER I thank Thee, O, my Father dear, For teaching me Thy name; None other name can ever be, Or mean to me the same. Thou art my Father, Mother, Friend, These three in one art Thou; And best of all, O, Father dear, Thou'rt Father here and now. Aoness Greene Foster DEAR OLD FATHER A PSALM OF FATHERHOOD I see around me a new world. It is light, and I see green pastures, where young trees are growing beside bright waters. Whence comes the sweet music that I hear with my soul? It is the singing of created things in praise of Fatherhood. I hear it, and am glad in my heart, for I have just looked on the face of my first-born, and now I hear the World's Song of Welcome, and my feet are set where the Eternal Winds of Life blow. I lift mine eyes to the stars, and rejoice in the mercy of God, for He hath made me one with Himself in Father- hood. If I have not that, I perish as the grass, and my life goeth out like a candle in a storm. For this child's sake, and for the sake of my beloved, the Mother, I will be strong to endure and to work, in the days that are to come. I will keep my hands clean, and my heart pure, that I may ascend the hill of life and stand in its holy places. In this new Earth which the Lord has spread about me like a cloud, I see many children. Some have eyes full of light, and some have tears on their young faces, and shadows upon their hearts. But all are the sons and daughters of Jehovah, and because I am a Father, I must serve with patience, and with labor, to clear away the briars from the paths where their tender feet must walk. I will pray for them also, that the sun may shine on their way; that the gates of plenty may stand ajar for them; that the golden bowl of health may be full, like the pool in the valley where flow the waters from springs hidden in the heart of the hill; that the fountains of use- fulness may be unsealed for them, and their hearts filled with joy in their work; that every evening they may he down in the green pastures beside the still waters, where the Angel of the Lord will watch over them until the morning comes. Cora G. Lewis DEAR OLD FATHER FATHER Life tells me now I did not understand My father in the good old days of yore, When we romped lanes of summer, hand in hand, And gathered shells and pebbles on the shore. I never knew the meaning of his sighs Nor guessed the secret of his boundless love, Though seeing oft a strange light in his eyes A light a growing boy knows nothing of. I took for granted all his kindly ways; I only knew I liked him best of all, And that the days with him were golden days But he was big, and I so very small. I never guessed why he should care to be The chum of mine he was so long ago; The picture that he saw I could not see, The future dreams he dreamed I could not know. But he is gone, and I am older grown, As old as he was then, and oh, I know Just what he dreamed of when we were alone; And why he seemed always to love me so. To-day ah, could I only call him there, I fain would tell him that I tried to be The man he dreamed of when his boy stood near Am I, I wonder, what he longed to see? To-day I know that every act and deed And every kiss he pressed upon my cheek, Were fraught with meaning only God can read, His heart held words his lips could never speak; And ever he was looking far ahead, With tears his eyes were often, often dim, To-day I know Oh, would he were not dead! What I am now I owe alone to him! Eoqab A. Guest TO BIT FATHER Ah, we were thoughtless, thankless Youth is so! We took, as we do still, the sun, the rain, The tender love that with our growth did grow, The watchful care that shielded us from pain! And now the fleeting years have sternly told More precious was thy love than fame and gold! Florence Gilmore THE THREADBARE COAT (9t LONE in the dark of the attic it hung, % Far hid from the gaze of the curious crowd, But the sweet solemn splendors of memory clung To the dear faded thing, like the light on a cloud; And the gloom of the garret is rifted to-day By the soft after-glow that memories shed; And the music comes back, though the singer's away, Asleep in the still songless house of the dead. It is only a coat weather-beaten and old, But it stands for the truest of loves to me; The dear form of my father it used to enfold, When the wind-driven snow swept over the lea; And he hugged up a lad from the clutch of the cold, Like a twittering bird in a sheltering nest, Ah yes, it is faded, storm-beaten and old, But it passes the wealth of all silver and gold. Charles Coke Woods DEAR OLD FATHER MY FATHER As he sits there His head thrown back, the silver of his hair, As shining there so softly fringed and white Against the darkened leather of the chair, Is crowning him with radiance of light, That softens all the deep and furrowed care Of his dear face, My father! As he sits there His gentle eyes lifted to pictured face Above my own dead mother's face as fair As pictured saint and noble, sweet and rare, With eyes that seem to gaze with earnest thought Upon him, eyes by artist-cunning caught, That shine with light of love and living grace, As he sits there My father! As he sits there We picture him as in his younger days, His princely beauty and his gallant ways, A knight of old so courteous, true and brave, Worthy all love the darling mother gave, Worthy her spirit's sweet and loving care, As he sits there My father! As he sits there Ah well, we know each precious thought is back With her in the old and rose-wreathed track Of happiness. His weary eye-lids close. A quiet smile quivering comes and goes, And as the fading fire, soft flickering, throws Its fight upon his face in mellowed beams, We know the night has met the day in dreams, As he sits there My father! Bettib Oakland DEAR OLD FATHER ;*_< TEN ' I ' M II M IMIMI I M I IIH'I M I W ' & o H, no, I cannot go with you after dinner to- night, because that is Father's time, and we always have so much fun then." That is what I heard a little maiden say to her school friend, who had invited her to go somewhere with her. "Father's time," I wondered what that meant, and so I asked the little maiden, "What is Father's time?" "Oh," said she, " 'Father's time' is right after dinner at night, an hour or so before we go to bed. Father makes lots of pleasure for us then, and it is the only time we can see him, except in the early morning, and that is for such a short while. Father never goes away at that time, neither do we; we give that hour to him, and he gives it to us. It is our 'together hour.' Oh, he is such a good, dear father." What a testimonial to the high standard of father- hood was the speech of this little girl. Away all day, immersed in business cares, the father could give no time to his children except the hour before their bed- time. With what happy, light hearts these little ones kissed him good-night when bedtime came, and with what smiling faces they went to sleep to dream beauti- ful dreams of father-love! Amebican Motherhood D ADDY TOMMINM Saddo over 'mato vines," lisped three-year-old to her eldest sister, the care-taker, bare eight summers; the youngest of this group of six, a babe, scarce two years old. All summer, the mother had lain in the hospital. The patient, God-fearing father, stooped and worn under the yoke of double parental duty while yet in early manhood, had given to his babes this sign of the setting sun, that they might look for his home-coming from the bread-winning work for this was yet his lighter task. And now, one carrying the dinner-pail, on either side little hands tugging the sagging trousers, baby perched on his arm, all telling the news of their lonely vigil, the pathetic group disappears within the desolate house. Without a scowl, but with many re- assuring words he prepares the supper, offers up thanks for the privilege of so doing, then with brooding care tucks them away for the night, and turns to household necessities. A few little garments are hung on the line; bread started to be baked before he leaves in the morn- ing, then a few hours, and the sun barely risen when he stirs again. M R8- Richardson DEAR OLD FATHER OUR FATHER There are men that time but mellows as it ever onward goes; There are hearts that carry fragrance as the fragrance of the rose; There are greetings that are warmer for the snowy frost- ed head; There are memories we shall treasure e'en till memory has fled. There are faces time has furrowed, where are joy and sorrow blent; There are feet that ne'er grow weary when on deeds of kindness bent; There are souls that bid defiance to each worldly, selfish creed; There are men we love to honor for each thought and word and deed. There are those who are as sunbeams as they go their daily round. They are worthy of remembrance, for but seldom are they found. So I write this humble tribute, though it needs a wor- thier pen To a prince of Nature's moulding, one who loves his fellow men. Samuel vVyatt HE WALKS WITH ME He walked with me down maple-shaded lanes, And violets blossomed for it was Life's Spring; And for the sunlight and soft-falling rains I learned from him a song of praise to sing For everything. He sought me out, where sin had bold of me, And raised me up, as only Father could; And when the world was smiling doubtfully At my poor blund'ring efforts to make good, He understood. And still he walks with me, tho stretched between Is that still stream of Death, unknown to me; I feel the leading of a hand unseen Although his kindly smile I may not see, He walks with me. Mae Peregrine DEAR OLD FATIER 0' TWBLTB THE ORDINARY FATHER FTER all, the world depends upon the ordinary work of ordinary people, and foremost in these ranks we find the ordinary father. In fact he's so ordinary that few, if any, of us pay any attention to him or take note of his coming or going. Even to himself he scarcely takes credit for the place he fills in the world. Yet, consider: Could the work of the world move on without this man? Could society exist without his ceaseless efforts? Could the home which is the foundation and culmination of Christianity and civiliza- tion come into being and continue should this man do otherwise than as he does? No I The fathers of the world bear that part of the world's work that can be borne by no one else so well. They make of the fabric of society a cloth of gold and set the homes as gems thereon. They plan and work, succeed or fail as the world judges success or failure. They give of their strength and endurance, of their energy and ambition, of their dreams of happiness and their lessons of experience and we take them all as common offerings, failing to ap- praise them at a quota of their real value. Let us now, in the rush of life, render love, reverence and justice to this man the ordinary father. Minnie Keith Bailey ERHAPS it is because all my life I wanted my father that I wish I could write a worthy word of praise to the great world of fathers, most of whom never know that the child's love for the father is as great as the child's love for the mother, though often it is a hidden love. Fathers are human beings with great human hearts which welcome as truly as ever did a mother's heart the thoughtful acts and endearment terms of beloved children. Father! The one whose joy is the reflected happi- ness of those to whom he gives pleasure. Father I Who labors because he loves, who is the bulwark of the household, the sun whose light brings joy, whose shadow brings rain! Father! The son's hero, the daughter's ideal, and the mother's comrade! Anna Thornton Jones DEAR OLD FATHER *>-^-^^ m mm !! "i THIBTKBN Ka^itjl FATHER Of all the named and nameless things, Beneath the rolling stars From Atom to the King of Kings, Amoeba unto Mars We call the name of Mother first, And yet there is a peer, Another name that man accurst Has rank'd right next to her. What would you have? What will you claim? Where reigns eternal law Wilt false distinctions needless name, Or fool division draw? Between the soil on which you dwell, The red earth and the sod, That mother whom we love so well, And fatherhood of God? O Mother Earth O Father God, O Nature binding both From yonder planet to our clod, A universe of truth We see, we feel, we sense the whole, The male and female troth And in the form we find the soul, Evolving forth its worth! Why deem this greater or that less? Why make of either all? There is no limit I'd caress, The infinite is small And large alike, to one who lives Amid the worlds around, Or stretches hands to Him who gives His silence unto sound. For know that names are synonyms Of natures, whose outline Our visions catch, ere error dims, Our sense of things divine; And Mother is of form the part To bear and rear our frames, While Father dwells within the heart And each the other names. John Fleming Pogue DEAR OLD FATHER ' FOURTEEN THE MATCH-MAKER My mama says she's married I ain't yet. En mama says she ain't a-goin' to let Nobody marry me at all before I'm seven or 'leven years old, er maybe more. My mama don't believe, she says, In makin' early marry-ges. But I'm a-goin to marry jest The nicest en the goodest, best Old husband ever was. Ef you Won't tell, en cross your heart, I'll whisper who It is. It's Papa. Mama says she's afraid He's got a wife already. But he'll trade Her off fer me, I bet, or else I'll take The marry off of him en make Him marry me. En, anyhow, I don't blieve 'at he is married now, 'Cause where's he keep her? Gramma she It jest his gramma, like she is to me, En I'm his little girl, en brother's brother, En that's all, 'cept my mama is his mother. I wish my mama wasn't married, fer I'd like to have my papa marry her While he's a-waitin'. He's so good en kind He'd do it jest fer me, en wouldn't mind. I 'most believe I will, 'cause she's so nice It wouldn't hurt if she is married twice. Edmund Vance Cooke From "I Rule The House." Copyright 1910, by The Dodge Publishing Co. Used by permission of author and publisher. GOD HAVE THEE IN HIS CARE Go, boy! Thou hast our love and prayers To keep thy soul from ill! Through lonely hours, through anxious cares, Beloved, believed in still. If storms should wreck thy fragile barque, If evil to thee come, There shines, at all times, through the dark A light for thee at home. From sin and shame God guide thy feet! A parent's humble prayer, Until once more in joy we meet, God have thee in his care! Robert A. Barker DEAR OLD FATHER IN DEFENSE OF HIS SON entlemen op the jury: If there is a culprit here, it is not my son it is myself it is I! I, who for these last twenty-five years have opposed capital punishment have contended for the inviolability of human life have committed this crime, for which my son is now arraigned. Here I denounce myself, Mr. Advocate General! I have committed it under all aggravated circumstances, deliberately, repeatedly, tenaciously. Yes, this old and absurd lex talionis this law of blood for blood I have combated all my life all my life, gentlemen of the jury! And, while I have breath, I will continue to combat it, by all my efforts as a writer, by all my words and all my votes as a legislator! I declare it before the crucifix; before that victim of the penalty of death, who sees and hears us; before that gibbet, to which, two thousand years ago, for the eternal instruction of the generations, the human law nailed the Divine! In all that my son has written on the subject of capital punishment and for writing and publishing which he is now before you on trial in all that he has written, he has merely proclaimed the sentiments with which, from his infancy, I have inspired him. Hugo > < A LITTLE MORE LOVE FOR FATHER ^ "IAUGHTER, stay a moment in your pleasures; | J have a little chat with Father; give him a hug and a kiss as you pass his chair. He may scarcely look up from his reading, but be sure he is pleased just the same. Take a little time from your young friends and give it to Father who is doing everything for you. Son, do not look on father simply as the man who makes the money for you to spend. You will never know the times his children hurt his feelings by their thoughtlessness and ingratitude. "The serpent's tooth" well describes the feelings of outraged parent- hood. Did you ever observe father looking at you so earnestly with that searching gaze that seemed to look through you and beyond you, that you wondered why? He may be dreaming of the future he would like for you to make, the man he wishes you to be. You may fall short of all he would desire for you, but you can give a little more love to Father. Alma Pendexter Hayden DEAR OLD FATHER WHEN THE OLD MAN SMOKES In the forenoon's restful quiet, When the boys are off at school, When the window lights are shaded And the chimney-corner cool, Then the old man beeks his arm-chair, Lights his pipe and settles back; Falls a-dreaming as he draws it Till the smoke-wreaths gather black. And the tear drops come a trickling Down his cheeks a silver flow Smoke or memories you wonder But you never ask him no. For there's something almost sacred To the other family folks In those moods of silent dreaming When the old man smokes. Ah, perhaps he sits there dreaming Of the love of other days And of how he used to lead her Through the merry dance's maze; For he called her "Little Princess," And, to please her, used to twine Tender wreaths to crown her tresses, From the "Matrimony Vine." Then before his mental vision Comes, perhaps, a sadder day, When he left his little princess Sleeping with her fellow clay. How his young heart throbbed and pained hitp Why the memory of it chokes; Is it of these things he's thinking When the old man smokes? But some brighter thoughts possess him For the tears are dried the while, And the old worn face is wrinkled In a reminiscent smile, From the middle of the forehead To the feebly trembling lips, At some ancient prank remembered Or some long unheard of quip. DEAR OLD FATHER ^W i II ! II II M II II Mi II I ! yW Then the lips relax their tension And the pipe begins to slide, Till in little clouds of ashes It falls softly at his side; And bis head bends low and lower Till his chin rests on his breast And he sits in peaceful slumber Like a little child at rest. Paul Laurence Dunbar OUR NOBLE SIRE Whose heart is it that fills with pride When we in our first trousers stride, And when we fly a little higher, Rejoices? 'Tis our noble sire! Who sees we kids grow into boys, Puts up with our infernal noise, Tells us stories, each a whopper Full of genii? "Tis our popper! Who buys us firecrackers and toys And stuffs our paunch with sugared joys, The circus shows us filled with awe? Why, sure! it is our genial pa! Who thrills when we athletes become And "break the record," jump or run, Or sighs if fortune proves a traitor? It is our omnipresent pater! Who, when we come to man's estate It anxious till we strike our gait, And frets himself into a lather If things go wrong? It is our father! Who shoves his snout into the trough To root the other porkers off, And swipes the stuff that makes us glad? It is our philanthropic dad! Who gained the prize we value most, Our truest friend and fondest boast! Who annexed mother to the clan, And got her for us? The old man! E. A. Herrick DEAR OLD FATHER F HI Vf?nWJ ATHERS as We Find Them" was the title of a paper requested of the newly-elected member of a woman's club at the first meeting of the section on "The Family." "The family begins with the father. He isn't just a factor; he's the head," whispered a protestor to her neighbor, who replied indignantly: "He's not a factor; he's partner, I suppose you mean. We don't say 'head' any more, you know. Hush!" The new member came forward with her paper, looked at it for a moment, then with a sudden impulsive movement laid it down. Her cheeks were pink with confusion, her lovely eyes on them all as she said with the simplicity of a child: "I just can't do it, you know. I tried; but I can't dissect fathers as a whole, when my own father is so unutterably dear has been ever since I could speak his name that I would far rather tell what made him so beyond any other fathers I knew. But they hadn't been taught. You say men and women know naturally. I say they don't! Father- hood and motherhood are not learned out of printed books nor in set lessons. It is life that teaches life that is love itself. My father was a busy lawyer, young still when I was born but wise in love, in child knowl- edge so that a bad child, as we call little unfortun- ates, loved and obeyed him. I thought when I first learned the Lord's Prayer that it must mean my own father, and even now I have hardly yet learned to separate him from my thought of the Heavenly Father. My father was a child with us in our plays, yet the father whose verdict on all our methods meant a justice, a wisdom and a sweetness that I pray my own children may in some measure find in me. In time I grew cer- tain that it is mothers who must teach their sons to be such fathers in the homes they might be and will be when love is the law. Many a father whom we regard simply as provider and wage-earner has another power, and women know that this power is the very height and sum of tenderness lying mute, perhaps, till the woman brings it out, shaping his life and with the same ideal. These fathers could never be pushed into the background, nor turned into mere bill-paying machines. We know that every man-child might be taught the meaning of fatherhood as every woman-child knows and feels motherhood. I am far sorrier for the men who do not know this than I am for women who learn perhaps only through motherhood, but do not know DEAR OLD FATHER >>^f>^^ in iu m i TWIXTT-THEEE vmm*% A TRIBUTE TO DAD Who is it, when the kid is bad, Crawls out of bed, in nightie clad, And up and down the floor, egad! Doth walk, though walking's not his fad? 'TisDad, Poor Dad! Who is it, growing old and gray, Toils like a beaver every day, Yet smiles to feel that Maw and Mae Are recherche and quite au fait? Tis Dad, Poor Dad! Who is it sees the children grow With love he lacks the art to show, Perforce content with overflow Of loves that to their mothers go? 'Tis Dad, Poor Dad! Who is it of his bairnies vain, And yet can't make the feeling plain, And therefore sobs this sob of pain, This doleful, soulful, sad refrain? 'Tis Dad, Poor Dad! A. J. Watbrhousb WHEN FATHER ROMPS WITH THE CHILDREN The children soon forget their toys And all the house is full of noise; The Baby claps his hands and crows, And Mother's heart with joy o'erflows When Father romps with the children. The aches and woes of life take flight, And all the world seems sweet and bright; Then all the home is filled with cheer And hearts to hearts draw very near When Father romps with the children. Perchance there'll come in after years A time when life is full of tears, And weary footsteps turn once more For love and peace to their own door When Father romp9 with the children. May McDonald Striki^nd By permission of American Motherhood. T DEAR OLD FATHER DAVID'S LAMENT FOR ABSALOM HE waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse. The reeds bent down the stream: the willow leaves With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide, Forgot the lifting winds; and the long stems Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way, And leaned, in graceful attitude, to rest. How strikingly the course of nature tells By its light heed of human suffering, That it was fashioned for a happier world. King David's limbs were weary. He had fled From far Jerusalem; and now he stood With his faint people, for a little space, Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow To its refreshing breath: for he had worn The mourner's covering, and had not felt That he could see his people until now. They gathered round him on the fresh green bank And spoke their kindly words; and as the sun Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there, And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. Oh! when the heart is full, when bitter thoughts Come crowding thickly up for utterance, And the poor common words of courtesy. Are such a very mockery how much The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer! He prayed for Israel; and his voice went up Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those Whose love had been his shield; and his deep tones Grew tremulous. But, oh! for Absalom, For his estranged, misguided Absalom, The proud bright being who had burst away In all his princely beauty, to defy The heart that cherished him for him he poured In agony that would not be controlled, Strong supplication, and forgave him there, Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. ******* The pall was settled. He who slept beneath Was straightened for the grave; and as the folds Sank to the still proportions, they betrayed The matchless symmetry of Absalom. His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curie Were floating round the tassles as they swayed To the admitted air, as glossy now As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing The snowy fingers of Judea's girls. His helm was at his feet; his banner soiled DEAR OLD FATHER 0' IW I ' ' I ' i Mto ii M n i TWINTT-nVl m4 With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid, Reversed, beside him; and the jeweled hilt Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, Rested like mockery on his covered brow. The soldiers of the king trod to and fro, Clad in the garb of battle; and their chief, The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier, And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly, As if he feared the slumberer might stir. A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade As if a trumpet rang; but the bent form Of David entered, and he gave command In a low tone to his few followers, And left him with his dead. The King stood still 'Til the last echo died; then, throwing off The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back The pall from the still features of his child, He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of woe: "Alas! my noble boyl that thou should'at die, Thou who wert made so beautifully fairl That death should settle in thy glorious eye, And leave his stillness in this clustering hair How could he mark thee for the silent tomb; My proud boy, Absalom I "Cold is thy brow, my son I and I am chill As to my bosom I have tried to press thee How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, Like a rich harp string, yearning to caress thee And hear thy sweet 'My Father!' from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom I "The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young; And life will pass me in the mantling blush. And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung, But thou no more with thy sweet voice shalt come To meet me, Absalom! "And, oh I when I am stricken, and my heart Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart, Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom! "And now, farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee; And thy dark sin oh! I could drink the cup If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy, Absalom!" He covered up his face, and bowed himself A moment on his child; then giving him A look of melting tenderness, he clasped His hands convulsively, as if in prayer: And as if strength were given him of God, He rose up calmly and composed the pall Firmly and decently, and left him there, As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. N. P. Wilms DEAR OLD FATHER IN DAD'S BED She said, and she nodded her head each word, "I 'ants to dit in Dad's bed, me do;" But her mother granting her mother heard Had naught to say; but the voice came through, Through the open door, through the purple gloom, To where her daddy had waked and knew That he wanted her, and he made her room. "I 'ants to dit in Dad's bed, me do." And then he waited while moments fleet Dropped away from time in a purple deep, But never a patter of wee bare feet; So he snuggled down and was half asleep When a thin, grieved voice smote on his ear, And he caught the sob in the baby tone: "Ain't Papa a-tummin? I'ms waitin' here. Does Papa 'ants me to turn alone?" But later, when she had snuggled down, The grief from her voice was gone away, And the yellow curls from her tousled crown Were spread a-wide when the light of day Came in through the window and touched her head And her dimpled cheek; and its mellow tone Like gold-dust lay on the curls outspread, Dad thought of his girl in the dark alone. And he kneeled by the bed ere he went to town, And his lips lay long on the golden head, And the dimpled fist that was hanging down He kissed; and kissed where upon the spread A pink palm lay like a crinkled rose; And he kissed the lids of the eyes of blue, And she dreamily said as he kissed her nose; "I 'ants to dit in Dad's bed, me do." ._. , JUDD MORTIMEB L.EWIS From "Sing the South" Published by J. V. Dealy Company, Houston, Texas DEAR OLD FATHER THE CHILDREN'S HOUR Between the dark and the daylight, When night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations, That is known as the children's hour. I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet. From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall stair, Grave Alice and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair. A whisper and then a silence; Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall, By three doors left unguarded, They enter my castle wall. They climb up into my turret, O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me; They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Their arms about me intwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse Tower on the Rhine. Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old mustache as I am Is not a match for you all? I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you into the dungeon In the round-tower of my heart. And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away. H. W. LonqfeUjOW DEAR OLD FATHER INTT-IHT FATHER Few books contain more beautiful pictures of a Father's love, than "Sonny" a charming monologue, by Ruth McEmory Stuart. ONNY arrives on Christmas night just such a night as when He first came, to bless and comfort menl His father is "on his knees in pure thankfulness" "Christmas a boy and she doing well," he exclaimed. His surprise and possible disappointment that Sonny is so diminutive is mitigated by the reflection "the less they have to contend with, at the start, the better." He falls into a happy sleep saying "They's angels all over the house and their robes is breshin' the roof." Later "for Sonny's sake" he started to say grace at table and left off the only "cuss word" which was "dura." ' He adds, "Maybe I ought not to say it, but I mi^s that word yet." He intended to teach Sonny to say "Mama" first but was overjoyed when he voluntarily said "Daddy." No sacrifice was considered one when made for his sake. To induce him to be vaccinated, parents, cook, and cats were ineffectual martyrs. He would not allow it, for himself. When his spiritual welfare was considered, they let him select the church, explaining "what we was after was righteous livin' and we didn't keer much which denomination helped us to it." They finally selected the Episcopal church, and when the rector said "Name this child," Sonny called out "Deuteronomy Jones, Senior." The father, feeling that "he spoke his heart's desire," had him thus christened and wrote it with a small s and his own name with a large S to call atten- tion to their relationship! He admits Sonny's faults, but adds: "Of course he's ours." He says "They ain't been a thing I've enjoyed as much as my sackerfices on account of Sonny's ad- jercation. Th' ain't a patch on any old coat, but seems to stand for some advantage to him." "I don't keer what he settles on; I expect to take pride in the way he'll do it." When his wife has joined "The Choir Invisible" Sonny, now a married man, tends him with tender care, kisses him night and morning, and the seed his unselfish love planted has blossomed into lovely fruit. N. S. R. DEAR OLD FATHER > m i i i i am > ii g am n i n am m n m i TWBNTT-NINB w$l FATHER'S CHRISTMAS BOX A big box comes at Christmas time From Father's sister Nell; His name is painted on the top "Handle with care" as well. We stand around expectantly While Father gets his tools; He pries and pokes, he thumps and pounds While breakfast slowly cools. He drops the hammer on his toe, His coat tears on a nail; But finally the lid comes off Poor Father's far from pale. A brass tea-pot for dear Mamma, A set of Scott for Dan, A big Noah's ark for Reginald, A ring for little Anne. A new silk dress for Grandmamma, Catnip for Kitty Gray, A pretty apron for the cook "How thoughtful!" we all say. A fine new leash for Danny's dog, A dress for sister's doll, A puzzle for the child next door How she remembers all! And now the bottom's all but reached We pull out baby's blocks; "What's Father's gift?" someone inquires "Oh, Father gets the box." R. D. Moore A FATHER'S REQUEST And when thou would solace gather, When our child's first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!" Though his care she must forego? 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 nevermore mayst see, Then thy heart will softly tremble, With a pulse yet true to me. Lord Byron THE KNIGHT OF THE OLD PANTS ^fpHE artists in belles-lettres do a fine stunt, ^ / About mothers and children and uncles and aunts In quest of pet themes, in the course of their hunt, Why don't they examine that old pair of pants? They'd find there a treasure a gold-mine of deeds; The hero who wears them's a busy old chap; By him the home fails or the household succeeds; In domestic geography he's on the map. He found a sweet girl and he made her his wife; He builds him a house; digs for something to eat; To him the ambition and pride of his life, Is to see her well dressed and their children look neat With meat in the larder and bread on the shelf, And good things galore for his family so dear, He gives little heed what he has for himself, But he's Santa Claus 'most every day in the year. That old pair of pants, if they cover his shanks, Will answer his purpose he's not very proud; He's fighting for loved ones sometimes without thanks, When they ought to be singing his praises out loud. All hail to the husbands and fathers so good; Here's a health to them all, may their blessings advance; I'd praise them still higher if only I could So, here's to the Knight of the Old Pair of Pants. J. I. Wolfe DEAR OLD FATHER ( ;i lW W IIM. M ll M llI I MII M .M M .MI THIETT-ONB MMigl FATHER F "lATHER. No language is perfect without the I word; no home complete without the relation; no nation safe without its defense. Father: The hope of the race; the safeguard of society; the defense of all things good and pure. Father is a synonym for love, courage, hope and help- fulness; for strength, intellect and victory. No word formed by human tongue means so much to the world, and none has been so woven into all its history. From the time when savage men fashioned crude weapons with which to protect their homes from others more savage, to the present, when a father's wisdom safe- guards his loved ones and his foresight provides against a time of need, the place he has held has been unique. In war and conflict the father has ever been most daring and courageous; in music, art and letters he has been supreme; in statesmanship and diplomacy his prestige has been undisputed; in making the history of the world he has been foremost. Without attempting to usurp the place that mother- hood occupies a place bought by love, sacrifice, purity and gentleness, and made sacred by devotion and saintliness even a more exalted place must be accorded to fatherhood, which has supplied the incentive and prompted the ambition for the epoch makers of all time. In prosperity a father's equipoise shields from many unwise and harmful things and in adversity it is a father's wisdom and courage that saves from despair and dissolution. In times of peace, when problems are to be solved, fathers are chosen for the task and when the clamor of war demands the service of men, they are first to respond. When God called Abraham from obscurity to become the progenitor of a people which He might call His own, He promised that he should be "the father of many nations." When the psalmist gave expression to his conception of God's love for mankind, he likened it to the pity of a father. When Christ attempted to portray the deepest and most abiding love of humankind, He spoke the incom- parable parable of a prodigal son's forgiveness by his father, and when He gave the World an ideal prayer which was to be repeated to the end of time, He pre- faced it with the words: "Our Father." Orman C. Emery DEAR OLD FATHER FATHER. He was not the sort of father that you read about in books; He wasn't long on language and he wasn't strong on looks. He was not the sort of father that you hear about in plays He was just a human father, sort of quiet in his ways. Just a sort of family father, fairly sound in wind and limb, Always ready at the word and not a nasty trick or whim, Seldom off his feed and never had to be turned out to graze, Safe for any child to drive and broke to harness forty ways! Steady at the bit was father; found a lot of fun in working; Threw his weight against the collar; seemed to have no time for shirking. Used to smile and say the feed-bin kept him steady on the track; Safe to leave him without hitching; he'd be there when you came back. No; he never balked at working, but when he was through it once, Right down to the grass was father, with the children doing stunts. Everyone would pile upon him and he'd welcome all the pack, But I'm wondering, after playtime, did we stay there on his back? Wasn't strong on dissipation; said his "gambol on the green" Was to fill the platter quicker than the kids could lick it clean, And the next best game he knew of was an equal one to beat; It was keeping leather covers up to the supply of feetl Mind! his tailor never told him, when his Sunday coat was fitted, That his wings necessitated wearing shoulders loose or slit ted, And he wasn't any martyr; said that life and love were good And no man deserved his dinner if he wouldn't split the wood. DEAR OLD FATHER Always on the job was father, plugging quiet-like and strong, Never making any noise, but helping all his little world along; And to think Lord I ain't it funny you can see things years and years And you never know they've been there, till your eyes are blind with tears! Quit his job one day and left us, smiling as he went away; Eulogy seems all so foolish; what can anybody say? Seemed like even in his leaving he was saving some one bother; For the one word in the granite which is over him is FATHER. Edmund Vance Cooke. Not in Contest Written expressly for Mr. Woolard AN UNUSUAL CHUM. Henry Blake's father goes fishing with him, And goes in the creek, so's to teach him to swim; He talks to him just like they're awful close chums And sometimes at nine he helps Henry do sums. And once he showed Henry how he used to make A basket by whittling a peach stone, and take The bark off of willows for whistles, although He hadn't made one since a long time ago. Henry Blake's father is just like his chum, And when he goes fishing he lets Henry come; He fixes two seats on the bank of the brook, And shows Henry how to put worms on the hook, And sometimes he laughs in the jolliest way At some little thing he hears Henry say, And dips up his drink in his hat like you do When only just boys go a-fishing with you. Henry Blake's father will take him and stay Somewhere in the woods for a half holiday, And wear his old clothes and bring home a sack Of hick'ries and walnuts to help Henry crack; And sit on a dead log somewhere in the shade To eat big sandwiches his mother has made; And Henry Blake's father, he don't seem as though He's more than his uncle, he likes Henry so. J. W. Foley By special permission of Mr. Foley . Not in Contest. DEAR OLD FATHER THE THIRD COMMANDMENT H ONOR thy father and thy mother the one commandment to which rewarding conse- quence is attached states a natural law of steadily unfolding meanings in the light of our modern understanding of man and his world. Long life, vigor and prosperity, for nations as for individuals, are now seen to be actually consequent on the obser- vance of this law, and not to be realized otherwise. And this not merely as fiat or favor of some supernatural being; but as certain and immutable cause and effect, bound up in man's very constitution. The investiga- tions of such menasGalton, Weissman, Mosso, Lombroso and Saleeby in the great field of heredity and race culture furnish striking evidence as to the truth of this view. Subsidence of the sentiment that honors fatherhood means the disappearance from modern life of the joy, the wonder, the poetry of paternal devotion and filial appreciation that belong in all normal and genuine love between Father and Child. With the loss of this deep and beautiful emotion and its warmth and color firing the heart and weaving character, go most of the things that make life worth living. There is close connection between honor to father and mother and lives honorable in all other respects. Solid basis have we here for honoring honor. In honor for parenthood, honoring itself, we have indispensable beginning for the true-heartedness and right-mindedness that honor Love and Truth, Justice and Right. Honoring Father and Mother and one is not truly honored without the other a man is sure to honor wife and children, sisters and brothers, neighbors and friends, home and country. Under the influence of the Mother Spirit, man has been transformed from a mere fighting animal into a Builder and Producer. This progress marks for both men and women an approach to that equilibrium sought thru age-long struggle between the forces masculine and feminine. With its fuller attainment, there will be no more war between nations, the energies of mankind being given wholly and joyously to dressing and tending this Garden of Eden we call Life. Slowly but surely, Fatherhood, in the large human sense of the word, is emerging as we give ourselves to the arts of peace. Yet the Ideal Father waits on the Ideal Mother. For it is the heel of the Woman that shall at last crush the head of the serpent of Sensuality; of the seed of the Woman shall be born the World's Deliver- ance - Paul Ttnkr DEAR OLD FATHER BIT PA My pa he's 'ist the strongest man 'at ever wuz, I guess, Cause he can lift why he can lift most anything, oh yes, He lifts me up, away up high and holds me up so long! And Ma she laughs and says "Oh, my!" when I say "Ain't he strong!" My pa he's 'ist the richest man in this here town, I know 'Cause he bought me some bran' new pants not mor'n a week ago; He says it takes 'ist lots of cash to buy new pants and sich, But Ma she laughs and says, "Oh, my!" when I say "Ain't he rich!" My pa he's 'ist the nicest man at ever lived. You see At nighttime when I'm most wore out he's awful good to me, He rocks me slow and hums a tune and hugs me once or twice, And Ma she laughs and pats my head when I say, "Ain't he nice!" Maud Howland Thomas THE FATHER I saw him as he trudged beyond the hedges, His figure tall and strong beneath his years, Great-hearted, sane, and grave with steady purpose, Deep-eyed as one who thru earth's shadow peers His homely tale 'twere his to read who ran As forth he strode, in very truth, a man. I marked upon his cheeks the winter roses And snowy locks up from his brow were swept: He plodded toward the sunset never doubting That warm about his hearth sweet comfort kept; With simple thanks he blest his humble lot As roadward curled the smoke above his cot. I heard brave men and women name him Sire, And wisdom, wisely gained, with him abode. Speak not of empires, thrones, or sounding battle, Nor yet of times when mighty lordlings strode 'Mid splendid pomps of stately hall and dome He labors best who builds a righteous Home. Maude De Verse Newton DEAR OLD FATHER THIHTT-MX* ET something be said of Father. Mother is still the inner sentinel keeping bright the altar fires of home; but it is Father who supplies the fuel and stands as outer guard to bar the gate against all violators of the sacred flame. It is Father who stands between the home world and its bitter foes, hunger and cold; and whether his weapon be the strong right arm or the keen brain, the true heart holds them tireless while life lasts, and woe to the little kingdom when its defender falls I He emblazons the path his boy must tread; and for him it is no question of the easier way or shorter journey, but every force of body, mind and soul must answer to his need who feels, "This way comes my son." He is the sentinel that must stand between his daugh- ter and unhappiness, his presence or his memory warning her against the unclean, the untrue and the weak; and, for her sake, he strains his manhood to the uttermost and sets hio mark so high that he who measures to it must be, indeed, a man. He is to his children the earthly type of the Divine Father, and it is to the credit of faithful fatherhood that most men have a broad and strong idea of their God. Then let us pay him our debt of reverent love. As we drain life's cup let us drink it to him worthily; and when with failing hand we break the glass, may there be no dregs of dishonor. May the life he gave add such credit to the name he bore that it shall be an undying eulogy to the name of Father I Bessie A. Stanley UT because some of the streams were deep and strong, and his legs were short and slender, and his ambition was even taller than his boots, the father would sometimes take him up pick-a-back, and wade along carefully through the perilous places which are often, in this world, the very places one longs to fish in. So, in your remembrance, you can see the little rubber boots sticking out under the father's arms, the rod projecting over his head, and the bait dangling down unsteadily into the deep holes, and the delighted boy hooking and playing and basketing his trout high in the air. How many of our best catches in life are made from some one else's shoulders 1 Henky Van Dyke From "Little Rivers." DEAR OLD FATHER YOU PUT NO FLOWERS ON MY PAPA'S GRAVE With sable-draped banners, and slow, measured tread, The flower-laden ranks pass the gates of the dead; And seeking each mound where a comrade's form rests, Leave tear-bedewed garlands to bloom o'er his breast. Ended at last is the labor of love; Once more through the gateway the saddened lines move. A wailing of anguish, a sobing of grief, Falls low on the ear of the battle-scarred chief; Close crouched by the portals, a sunny-haired child Besought him in accents which grief rendered wild : "O! sir, he was good, and they say he died brave Why! why! did you pass by my dear papa's grave? I know he was poor, but as kind and as true As ever marched into the battle with you His grave is so humble, no stone marks the spot, You may not have seen it. Oh, say you did not! For my poor heart will break if you knew he was there, And thought him too lowly your offerings to share. He didn't die lowly he poured his heart's blood In rich crimson streams, from the top-crowning sod Of the breastworks which stood in front of the fight And died shouting, 'Onward! for God and the right!' O'er all his dead comrades your bright garlands wave, But you havn't put one on my papa's grave. If Mamma were here but she lies by his side, Her wearied heart broke when our dear papa died." "Battalion! file left! countermarch!" cried the chief, "This young orphan'd maid hath full cause for her grief." Then up in his arms from the hot, dusty street, He Uf ted the maiden, while in through the gate The long line repasses, and many an eye Pays fresh tribute of tears to the lone orphan's sigh. "This way, it is here, sir right under this tree; They lie close together, with just room for me." "Halt! Cover with roses each lowly green mound A love pure as this makes these graves hallowed ground." "Oh! thank you, kind sir! I ne'er can repay The kindness you've shown little Daisy to-day; But I'll pray for you here, each day while I live, 'Tis all that a poor soldier's orphan can give. "I shall see Papa soon, and dear Mamma too I dreamed so last night, and I know 'twill come true; And they will both bless you, I know, when I say How you folded your arms round their dear one to-day; How you cheered her sad heart, and soothed it to rest, And hushed its wild throbs on your strong, noble breast ; And when the kind angels shall call you to come, We'll welcome you there to our beautiful home, Where death never comes, his black banners to wave, And the beautiful flowers ne'er weep o'er a grave." C. E. L. Holmss DEAR OLD FATHER THIHTT-EiaHT > CANTATE PATER-DOMINO THE CHILD LISPS : "O, Daddy, dear, I am tho very glad That you are home and I can play outthide. The duthky street ith dangerouth and wide And yet I want to play there very bad. And if the dark thould thettle low and high, And I thould feel afraid of 'Boogy-Boo,' I'm thure that you would come if I thould cry And bring me thafely to the houthe with you." THE WOMAN MUSES : "Brave One, with tender laughter in your e3 r es, My Father! how I long to see your face To feel the shelter of your strong embrace And hear your speech from joy and sorrow wise. Dear, when I stray and make some sad mistake In any path of life on which I roam, Your love will lend a hand for love's dear sake And guide my faltering footsteps safely home." THE SOUL PRAYS: "Thou most high God, Heart Father of us all, Parent of time and of each wayward life Thou who in peace looks down upon our strife And harkens to each silent inward call; Oh, when the morning stars we may not see And evening shadows round our faces play, Take each worn life and let it dwell with Thee In sweeter worlds, forever and a day!" Bessie Mat Bellman WHO GIVETH THIS WOMAN TO THIS MAN? Woman? No! a child, his daughter Children with her romp and play; Yet they ask him at the altar, "Who, this woman, gives away?" These are words of deepest meaning; "Gives," O, preacher, didst thou say! Gift, all other gifts excelling, This, the father, gives away. Hushed the aisles and bare the altar, Faded now the light of day Midnight shrouds the one lamenting Who, this woman, gave away. F. H. By permission of Boston Transcript. DEAR OLD FATHER THIBTT-NINB THE INHERITANCE 1 am but one of the countless sires Whose names are on every tongue; They are blazoned by myriad funeral pyres And by little children sung. For ere my childhood days were done My father led me where His father's father had led his son, To the hall of the portraits there. And the musty canvasses looked down On me as they had at him, And I studied with care each painted frown And each smile, till the light grew dim. For here was my father's rugged sire And he who was sire of him, And it seemed that the light of some great desire Burned 'neath each visage grim. Then my father spoke of the tales re-told That his father had told to him, And I saw the scheme of life unfold And life filled my cup to its brim. 'Twas then that I came to learn the light That glowed in my father's eyes, As he told of the deeds they had done for right, With honor their only prize. And I cried: O, Father, I too, will keep Thy faith and the faith of our sires, That my children's children shall never weep For the evil of my desires. And so I will pledge my life to you, And my sons' when God blesses me, And, in turn, they will pledge their sons to be true For all time and eternity. I am but one of the countless sires Whose names are on every tongue; They are blazoned by myriad funeral pyres And by little children sung, Susie Sweet Gileerson A father sees his children as God sees all of us; he looks into the very depths of their hearts; he knows their good intentions. _ Balzac MY DAD fY dad lie makes the slickest kite You ever saw, by jing! Why, it will sail clean out o' sight When I let out the string! The other kids they come to me Fer their kite patterns now; An' they're as glad as they kin be That my dad knows just how. My dad kin take two wheels an' make A coaster that is fine. The other kids all want to take Their pattern now from mine. An' when we all slide down a hill, Why, I kin pass by each As though they all was standin' still I Say, ain't my dad a peach? My dad kin make a bow that sends An' arrow awful high; You orter see it when it bends, An' watch that arrow fly! An' now, why, every kid you see Tries hard to make a bow As good as what dad made fer me. But they can't do it, though! My dad kin take a willow stick, Before the bark is dry, An' make a whistle jest as slick As any that you buy. Gee, but the kids are jealous when I toot where they're at! They all commence a-wishin* then They had a dad like that! They's nothin' much my dad can't do If he makes up his mind. An' he is mighty chummy, too, One of the bully kind. Some dads would yell, "Oh, go an' play; I'm busy as kin be!" But my dad he ain't built that way! Not on your life, by gee! E. A. Brininstool Not submitted in contest. DEAR OLD FATHER { i i w i i mimiimi 1 I 1 i mi n I mi m i FORTT-ONE >> FIRST FLIGHT OF THE FLEDGLING Your mother says you want to go Away to school Sit here a while No, never mind the lights, the glow From the sunset is bright. I'll pile A few more sticks into the grate I'm chilly. What, you don't feel cold? Where's Mother? She said not to wait? I can't believe you've grown so old. That's right, your cheek against my cheek Dad's little bit of snuggling girl I 'Twas yesterday or just last week You used to come, your every curl Windblown and tousled rowdydow And get your dolls and little stool And play about my feet. And now You want to go away to school. Yes, you can go, of course! We knew, Mother and I, you'd have to go Planned for it, too, dear, since when you Were just a little thing, and so We put something away each week Out of my earnings. You don't know What fun it was for us to peek At that account and watch it grow I Sometimes, dear, it meant quite a squeeze To bank that little bit for you; Dad's trousers bagged some at the knees In those old days, and Mother knew What it meant to turn an old dress And make it do another year. How young we were ! And glad ! I guess We were like children, pretty near. There isn't much for me to say We'll want you to write us a lot, We'll want to know what games you play, Your friends, your tasks, each wish, each thought I'm going to hunt Mother now No, don't come with me, not now, dear; We planned for this for years somehow, Though, it seems different now it's here. Judd Mortimer Lewis. Not in Contest Written expressly for Mb. Woolaiuj DEAR OLD FATHER A TRIBUTE TO MY FATHER ATHER will soon reach the age of four-score years. Every time I return to the Old Home I am astonished at the additional lines upon his careworn face and the snowy whiteness of his hair. Recently when I was spending a few days with my parents I was impressed as I noticed Father's tendency to sit alone late at night before the kitchen fire. After I had gone to bed one evening I was awakened at a late hour it was past midnight, I think and, looking out into the adjoining room I saw him sitting alone in quiet contemplation, his withered hands folded gently across his lap. As I looked closer I noticed that he was awake and that he was gazing at the dying embers of the fading fire. I retired again but could not sleep. Con- tinuously this thought invaded my mind: Would that I myself could to-night retrace the memories that have passed through the mind of my aged father. What an endless panorama of life it must have beenl What a shifting, changing scene, depicting every joy, grief and sorrow common to the indigent world ! Before Father passed the age of childhood, both of his parents had died. From boyhood to manhood he was "hired out." He served as a private soldier in the Civil War. In the early day he came West and here endured all of the privation known to the pioneer. In the midst of unfruitful years he clothed and fed thir- teen children. Seven times he stood beside an open grave, each time bravely trying to comfort the heart- broken mother in the midst of overwhelming grief. I have never heard him murmur against fate. Al- though he has suffered all of the adversity and mis- fortune known to the humble poor, I am sure he has not complained that Life has been unjust to him. His was a time when fathers all of them labored inces- santly. Every day for them was a day of work, re- quiring courage of heart and strength of arm. A Mighty Generation, of which Father is a small part, sits silently in the shadows of swiftly declining years, calmly awaiting the twilight and Evening Star. Their humble lives were all service; their noble work is done. Our feeble words of praise can never do them justice. In their presence homage is valueless and our highest tributes fail. Louis Allen DEAR OLD FATHER rOBTY-THBEB TO MY FATHER Alas! I little thought that the stem power, Whose fearful praise I sang, would try me thus Before the strain was ended. It must cease For he is in his grave who taught my youth The art of verse, and in the bud of life Offered me to the Muses. Oh, cut off Untimely! when thy reason in its strength, Ripened by years of toil and studious search, And watch of Nature's silent lessons, taught Thy hand to practise best the lenient art To which thou gavest thy laborious days, And, last, thy life. And therefore, when the earth Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned pale When thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thou Shalt not, as wont, o'erlook, is all I have To offer at thy grave this and the hope To copy thy example, and to leave A name of which the wretched shall not think As of an enemy's whom they forgive As all forgive the dead. Rest, therefore, thou Whose early guidance trained my infant steps Rest, in the bosom of God, till the brief sleep Of death is over, and a happier life Shall dawn to waken thine insensible dust. Bryant >" > A FATHER'S LOVE RONDEAU. A father's love, that in our childhood's years Protects whene'er some threatening form appears, Directs our footsteps on their upward way Lest into brambles wild their course may stray From every path each thorn and danger clears. Through youth no faith to us so strong adheres, No trust so staunch our flagging spirit cheers; In darkest night still shines that beckoning ray A father's love! In days mature when fickle fortune veers, When trial and burden lay their weight of tears, A haven safe to rest from our dismay What art can our great debt to thee repay, Blest sharer of life's toll of joy and fears, A father's love! Not in Contest CHARLES MoREAU HaRGBR Written expressly for Mb. Woouhd. DEAR OLD FATHER #M I FORTT-FODB THERE was once in a Scottish family a little boy who was very ill. The doctor came and left some bitter medicine. The child utterly refused to let it touch his lips and the poor mother was beside herself because she was between two perils. It was dangerous for the child to be excited and equally dangerous for him to do without the medicine. The mother sat down and cried. Presently a little voice piped up in the bed, "Dinna greet, Mither. Fayther'U be home sune and he'll gar me take it." The little chap knew that in Father was invested authority, and that while he could resist Mother, he would have to obey when Father came home. Not only in holding the balance of power is Father useful and indispensible in the home. Many a time a wailing infant hushes itself to rest when the strong arms of Father enfold it. Children repose with entire trust in the love and strength of Father as in the gentleness and sweetness of Mother. A home without both parents is only a half a home. To bring children up as they ought to be, Father and Mother are equally necessary and equally potential. All honor to the self-denial and self- sacrifice of hard-working fathers who set before their children an ideal of honor, integrity and true manli- ness, of chivalry and devotion, and who bring their children up in the fear of God. Margaret E. Sangbter Written expressly for Me. Woolakd. TO A USURPER Aha! a traitor in the camp, A rebel strangely bold, A lisping, laughing, toddling scamp, Not more than four years old ! To think that I, who've ruled alone So proudly in the past, Should be ejected from my throne By my own son at last! He trots his treason to and fro, As only babies can, And says he'll be his mamma's beau When he's a "gweat, big man!" You stingy boy! you've always had A share in Mamma's heart; Would you begrudge your poor old dad The tiniest little part? DEAR OLD FATHER That mamma, I regret to see, Inclines to take your part, As if a dual monarchy Should rule her gentle heart! But when the years of youth have sped, The bearded man, I trow, Will quite forget he ever said He'd be his mamma's beau. Renounce your treason, little son, Leave Mamma's heart to me; For there will come another one To claim your loyalty. And when the other comes to you, God grant her love may shine Through all your life, as fair and true As Mamma's does through mine! From "A Little Book of Western Verse" EuGBNE FlELD Published by Charles Scribner's Sons Copyright 1889, by Eugene Field. ><> THE LITTLE CHAP'S FAITH 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 hurry I'm prompted so often to pause, While my mind strays away from the striving, 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 laugh at the downfalls and failure; I can smile at the trials and the 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. Louie E. TiiAYF.it Kind permission of Saturday Evening Post. DEAR OLD FATTER FOBTT-SIX i FATHER Oft in the dark, when childish fears would chill me, And I would grope in awesome dreams astray, My father's hand with confidence would fill me, My father's voice would drive the ghosts away. In later days, when I was worn and weary, And, panting, paused, to rest me in the shade, He called to me; his tones were strong and cheery, And I went forward, calm and unafraid. Whenever life was dark and grim and full of sorrow, Whenever skies were starless, bleak and gray, My father spoke of brighter scenes to-morrow, And led me from the tangles of to-day. And when the shades of death's dark night are falling, And I can hear the wash of Styx's swell, It may be that I'll hear my father calling: "Come on, my lad! Fear not, for all is well!" Not in Contest WALT MASON Written expressly for Mr. Woolaed A FATHER READING THE BIBLE 'Twas early day, and sunlight stream'd Soft through a quiet room, That hush'd, but not forsaken, seem'd Still, but with naught of gloom. For there, serene in happy age, Whose hope is from above, A father communed with the page Of Heaven's recorded love. Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright, On his gray holy hair, And touched the page with tenderest light, As if its shrine were there! But oh! that patriarch's aspect shone With something lovelier far A radiance all the spirit's own, Caught not from sun or star. Some word of life e'en then had met His calm benignant eye; Some ancient promise, breathing yet Of immortality! Some martyr's prayer, wherein the glow Of quenchless faith survives: While every feature said "I know That my Redeemer lives!" DEAR OLD FATHER Arid silent stood his children by, Hushing their very breath, Before the solemn sanctity Of thoughts o'ers weeping death. Silent yet did not each young breast With love and reverence melt? Oh ! blest be those fair girls, and blest That home where God is feltl Felicia Dorethea Hemanb FATHER'S CHAIR It was my stronghold in the days When I, coaxed newly down From love's fair realm, assumed the ways Of one who wears a crown. Though homage leal, and servile mien I claimed with regal air, None might depose the tiny queen Whose throne was Father's chair. At night, when Winter's fingers beat The panes with spiteful ire, I loved to watch the goblins fleet A frisking in the fire; While Father thrilled me with the lore Of valiant, knightly quests They dared, who ladies' tokens wore Upon their gleamy crests. A form with hungry arms once hung Above my fevered bed. To Father, terrified, I clung; All pitiful, he said, "My precious pet, to Father's chair It cannot find the way." His tender strength and yearning care The specter kept at bay. The years that strewed my way with flowers, To him were void and drear, And laden with the wistful hours Of those whose age is sear. Sometimes when twilight shades enfold His shabby, vacant chair, Pathetic, patient as of old, I see him sitting there. Margaret Perkins DEAR OLD FATHER FOBTT-EIOHT I WHEN DADDIE CALLS ME "DEARIE" There is never a trial or so great a care, There is never a frown so weary, But the heaviest load seems light to bear When I hear his laugh so cheery; When I see his face And I hear his voice When Daddy calls me "Dearie." There is never a hill on the road so steep, There is never so hard a theory; There is never a pit beyond so deep, But his face is ever as merry; It will always beguile Be a path for a smile When Daddy calls me "Dearie." There is never a shadow when night's drawing nigh, Makes me fear of To-morrow's query, There is never a trouble to come bye and bye, That makes the outlook dreary; Soon storms are past Trials cannot last When Daddy calls me "Dearie." Katherinb Jackson WHAT SORT OF A FATHER ARE YOU? What sort of a father are you to your boy? Do you know if your standing is good? Do you ever take stock of yourself and check up Your accounts with your boy as you should? Do you ever reflect on your conduct with him? Are you all that a father should be? Do you send him away when you're anxious to read? Or let him climb onto your knee? Is a book more important to you than his talk; Do you find that his chatter annoys? Would you rather be quiet than have him about? Do you send him away with his toys? Have you time to bestow on the boy when he comes With his questions to tell him the truth? Or do you neglect him and leave him alone To work out the problems of youth? Do you ever go walking with him hand in hand? Do you plan little outings for him? Does he ever look forward to romping with you, Or are you eternally grim? What memories pleasant of you will he have In the years that are certain to come? Will he look back on youth as a season of joy, Or an age that was woefully glum? DEAR OLD FATHER Come, father, reflect! Does he know you to-day And do you know him as you should? Is gold so important to you that you leave It to chance that your boy will be good? Take stock of yourself and consider the lad, Your time and your thought are his due; How would you answer your God should He ask, "What sort of a father are you?" Anon. HER FATHER A bright wood fire sends its fitful fight On a father and daughter, huddling tight In an old arm chair The curly head on the faithful breast , And the rosy cheeks in their sheltered nest. They two alone. The world shut out, Father and daughter alone in their love, Wife and mother in Heaven above. "Tell me a story, Papa, please, Tell me a story of stormy seas! Of winds that blow with an icy zest, Yet cannot 'disturb the sparrow's nest.' Of your Huguenot parents that liv'd in a cave, And found in their youth a martyr's grave. O, Papa, dear! it makes me cry When we are alone just you and II But tell it to me!" So the tale was told of Scotland's hills Of the bonnie lock, and the dancing rills Of the purple heather, and yellow gorse That swayed and bent with the storm king's force Of the brave, brave souls that left their home For the land where the exiled ever come. The curly head dropped lower down, The soft little arms round his neck were thrown. The hot salt tears were wiped away, And the darling child in slumber lay Her father's voice she heard in her sleep Asking his Father above to keep His dear little child from danger and sin That the heavenly gates she might enter in. The fire burned low the clock rang out, Then silence came, and the room was filled with a sacred presence, As father and child in slumber lay In dreams as sweet as a summer's day. So, side by side through the world they went The golden curls, and the silver gray! Side by side they lie asleep but when shadows gather; They are safe in the arms of their Heavenly Father 1 Mart C. Todd FATHER (Eulogy pronounced by a noted criminal -whose better nature was stirred by the judge's reference to the condemned man's father.) H 1AVE I "no respect for my father?" Wait a J moment, Judge. I know I am a sinner and considered to be a heartless, inhuman criminal, willing to stoop to almost any depth of iniquity to satisfy the human craving for that God-of-all-the- Earth, that metal with the strangely-captivating tinkle and golden glitter which bears upon its brow the motto, "In God We Trust." The judgment has been pronounced by the jury and is being reiterated by the general public from whose presumptuous decree, there seems to be no earthly appeal. But Judge, I have a heart with a human affection and a soul God-given. And as thou art thy father's son, as thou hast a heart filled with love for thy father, I would have you spare the heart within this weak and sin-stained frame the torture of the insinuation of that interrogation. My Father I How the memory of his uprightness, his tender sympathy, and his paternal kindness has ever twinkled upon the horizon of my existence as if to illuminate the darkness of my soul and enable me to read there the purpose of my existence! I see him in fancy now approaching the Gate of Mystery just at the end of the Highway of Life; upon his brow a furrow of care, made doubly deep by the ungrateful unthinking child's youthful follies; upon his head a silvered hair for each of the innumerable burdens borne unflinchingly for the sorrows endured in that silent grief which pass- eth all understanding, and for pains suffered with that patience which they alone possess who deny themselves that others may enjoy; upon his hands the scars of toil, drudgerized by being denied that appreciation and encouragement for which his heart yearned; upon his breast the jewels of merit, earned by the cheerful giving of a life of service to those who knew him not. Such was my Father! FiEid) Smith DEAR OLD FATHER ONCERNING the influence and responsibility of the mother, much has been said. For her encouragement and guidance in the carrying out of ideals for the training of children, countless mothers' organizations have been formed, at the regular meetings of which no effort is spared to secure expression and help from minds richly developed along child-study lines. That such aid should be provided for mothers is right. They need it. But what of father? Is he receiving sufficient attention? Why is he so rarely invited to at- tend the mothers' meetings? Does the mother bear alone the responsibility of properly building the charac- ter of the children, and of making home happy, or should father share these privileges with her? Is not the home a type of heaven on earth, and is not home what both father and mother make it? Does not the father stand as much in need of helpful aid as does the mother? It is said that mothers, working through their or- ganizations, have been instrumental in bringing about wonderful reforms in educational methods. If mothers working by themselves, have been able to do so much, what might they not accomplish if supported by the aid and counsel of the fathers? Would there not be greater strength in a Parents' Congress than in a Mothers' Congress? It is a mistake to leave the father out of counsels so important. It should be a great object of organization to teach the father and the mother how best to work together as a well-mated team. Luther Burbank declares that scientific ideas similar to those which have been successfully employed in the development of plant life may be applied to the training of children. He says that plants and trees respond to the influence of environment, but children are infinitely more responsive to such influences. That whenever fathers, as well as mothers, recognize these realties in the realm of human life, and begin to apply scientific principles to the training of children, then humanity will enter upon an improved stage of existence. To learn how to create proper environment is just as important to fathers as it is to mothers, and unless both can work together the best results can not be hoped for. Has father been kept too much in obscurity? If so let us bring him forward, recognize him, and give his light a chance to shine. Lida H. Hardy DEAR OLD FATHER IDEAL HUSBANDS AND WIVES - ^ .UT the husband in his turn should find out ccr- 11 I tain laws to regulate his treatment of his wife, as one who entered the house of her husband to share his children and his life, and to leave him a progeny destined to bear the names of her hus- band's parents and her own. And what in the world could there be more holy than these ties? Or what is there about which a man in his sound sense could strive more earnestly than to beget the children who shall hereafter nurse his declining years, from the best and most praiseworthy of wives; for they are to be, as it were, the best and most pious preservers of their father and mother, and guardians of the entire family. For it is probable that they will turn out good, if they have been reared uprightly by their parents in the habitual practise of what is just and holy; but if the contrary should be the case, they will suffer the loss themselves. For unless parents afford their children a fit pattern of life, they will leave them an obvious excuse to quote against themselves. And this is to be feared, that if they have not lived well, their sons will disregard them, and neglect them in their old age. Abistotle HE rod was a reward, yet not exactly of merit. It was an instrument of education in the hand of a father less indiscriminate than Solomon, who chose to interpret the text in a new way, and preferred to educate his child by encouraging him in pursuits which were harmless and wholesome, rather than by chastising him for practices which would likely enough never have been thought of had they not been forbidden. The boy enjoyed this kind of father at the time, and later he came to understand, with a grate- ful heart, that there is no richer inheritance in all the treasury of unearned blessings. For, after all, the love, the patience, the kindly wisdom of a grown man who can enter into the perplexities and turbulent im- pulses of a boy's heart, and give him cheerful com- panionship, and lead him on by free and joyful ways to know and choose the things that are pure and lovely and of good report, make as fair an image as we can find of that loving, patient Wisdom which must be above us all if any good is to come out of our childish race. Henry Van Dtke From "Little Rivers" DEAR OLD FATHER ! M I O^ M ^1 FIFTT-THREH ^"J 1 FATHER Who always calls you "William," When the fellers call you "Bill?" Who says when he was your age, He had three times your will? Who makes a fuss about the noise About your rough and tumble ways. Yet stands guard like a monitor Through all your childhood days? That's Father! Who says when you're off to college That you have not any brains? That you never think of study, That it's nothing much but games ! Who makes an awful holler When the quarter's bills are due, Yet thinks deep down within his heart, There is no one just like you? That's Father! Who says you are just the limit When the girls you're off to see, That you talk of nothing but your clothes And some confounded "tea," That you smoke and drink and swear Enough to kill a decent man? Yet swells with pride when he says, "My Son," Now beat it if you can That's Father! So on Life's stormy voyage, No wave can him o'erwhelm; He never gets much calcium, But is always at the helm. He is only just "the governor," Of course he'll "come across;" But did you ever stop and think How little you'd get if you lost That Father? Jessica Parker DEAR OLD FATHER FITTY-FOUK WAITING On summer Saturday's long afternoon I used to climb, barefoot, one thronelike knoll, Soliloquizing: "Father's coming soon." The gray pike billowed eastward like a scroll And vanished in the apex of a hill One world-long mile away; around me played The shifting sunbeams magically still, Tiptoeing from each ever-lengthening shade. I knew that when he crept into my ken Above the hillbrink I should know the span White-stockinged bay, head-tossing gray; and then The strong, familiar figure of the man. I'd know them know theml Leaping with their joy My swift feet from my cairn would take me down- A care-free, zephyr-hearted, eager boy, To welcome home my father from the town. Once on a time he went away again; Perhaps the sun shone, but we could not see. I have not climbed that little knoll since then, 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. Bv Permi88ion of STRICKLAND W. GlLULAN The Ladies Home Journal. THE SINGING OF THE OLD SONG My dear little girl in the evening, Climbs to her place on my knee, And says to me softly; "O, Papa, Will 'oo sing 'Nellie Gray' to me?" Then I think of the days departed The first time I heard the old song I sat on the knee of my father, A little chap, sturdy and strong. And he, in the full prime of manhood, With resonant voice strong and clear, Sang the words of that old-time ballad His voice and his tone I yet hear. I've since heard the music of masters Where gathered the worshipful throng, But naught was to me e'er so lovely, As was then that simple, old song DEAR OLD FATHER He sang with no voice of rare culture, Scant knowledge of music had he; B\it then he was greatest of all men And sweetest of singers to me! Long, long has my dear father slumbered 'Neath the sunken mound on the hill, And yet from a silence unbroken He speaks and he sings to me still 1 And oft-times when quiet enfolds me I could hear a pin strike the floor! I can see him and hear him yet singing, As he sang in the days of yore! And I sing with tear-drops soft flowing 'Tis dusk, and sweetheart does not see! And trust when she sings to her children She will tenderly think of me! Amanda Dobbins FATHER THE PIONEER Sky blue and tree a-bloom, And all things fair for me, With all the years of toil that made this land A memory. And what a memory of those years that werel I would that I could paint a picture true, And catch the lights and shadows of those years That he lived through! A barren plain a-glimmer in the sun, The heat-waves burning up the scorched grass, The lonely settler in his meagre home, The hopes that pass. A barren plain all piled with drifted snow, The blizzard's biting blast across the land Oh, winter-life was hard those years ago For settler band! Still straight and strong and hale, a strength to all, Father is living life's late afternoon Awaiting sunset and the evening star That beckons soon. Sky blue and tree a-bloom, And all things fair for me Since father made the burdens of this land A memory. Mablb Chablub DEAR OLD FATHER < Sn i fifty-six i i tm ii i i n n m i iii m i^i WHEN FATHER CARVES THE DUCK We all look on with anxious eyes When Father carves the duck, And Mother almost always sighs When Father carves the duck; Then all of us prepare to rise And hold our bibs before our eyes, And be prepared for some surprise, When Father carves the duck. He braces up and grabs the fork Whene'er he carves the duck, And won't allow a soul to talk, Until he carves the duck. The fork is jabbed into the sides, Across the breast the knife he slides While every careful person hides From flying chips of duck. The platter's always sure to slip When Father carves a duck, And how it makes the dishes skip; Potatoes fly amuck. The squash and cabbage leap in space, We get some gravy in our face, And Father mutters Hindoo grace Whene'er he carves a duck. We then have learned to walk around The dining room and pluck From off the window-sills and walls Our share of Father's duck. While Father growls and blows and jaws, And swears the knife was full of flaws, And Mother laughs at him because He couldn't carve a duck. E. V. Wright -'0 EPITAPH ON MY EVER HONORED FATHER O ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend! Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, The tender father, and the gen'rous friend; The pitying heart that felt for human woe, The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride; The friend of man to vice alone a foe; For "ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side." Robert Burns DEAR OLD FATHER rUTY-SEVBN *~>& TO BIT FATHER'S MEMORY A massive oak stood straight and tall amidst the forest trees. The sunlight crowned its lofty head with molten goldl Beneath its sturdy limbs both man and beast sought shelter from the storm. Out of the clear blue sky, a thunder-cloud swept into view; and from the parapet of Nature's battlements, Great Jove shot forth a fatal bolt, that pierced the heart of this same noble Oak! King of the Forest lay shattered in the wood ! The birds no longer sang within the arbors of its sylvan shade; the sunbeams danced no more upon the velvet lawn, with flickering shadows of its shimmering leaves; no more the lowing kine sought shelter 'neath its spreading arms its scarred and mangled trunk alone remained, a monument to Life's brief tragedy ! Such was the life and death of thee we mourn; Beneath thy rugged form a heart of Oak! As ivy winds its tendrils round the tree, So clung thy Dear Ones and thy Friends to thee. As balmy zephyrs sway the tender twigs, So thy response to sweet Affection's wand. The Oak stands straight despite the wintry winds, So thou didst meet the cruel blast of Fatel Thy Harp of Life was tuned to Charity; Blind Justice swept its strings in harmony With rare Fidelity; and Love of Man The theme that filled thy soul with melodyl True to thy God, thy Fam'ly and thy Friends, We shall not often see thy counterpart. Hail! and Farewell! Bon voyage o'er the Sea! A few short years and we shall come to thee. Warren E. Comstock. THE ARROW-MAKER'S LAMENT Thus it is our daughters leave us, Those we love, and those who love us! Just when they have learned to help us, When we are old and lean upon them, Comes a youth with flaunting feathers, With his flute of reeds, a stranger Wanders piping through the village, Beckons to the fairest maiden, And she follows where he leads her, Leaving all things for the stranger. Longfellow DEAR OLD FATHER ON THE DEATH OF HIS SON H""~IAD it pleased God to continue to me the hopes I of succession, I should have been, according to my mediocrity, and the mediocrity of the age in which I live, a sort of founder of a family; I should have left a son, who, in all the points in which personal merit can be viewed, in science, in erudition, in genius, in tastes, in honor, in generosity, in humanity, in every liberal sentiment and every liberal accomplish- ment, would not have shown himself inferior to the Duke of Bedford, or to any of those whom he traces in his line. His Grace very soon would have wanted all plausibility in his attack upon that provision which belonged more to mine than to me. He would soon have supplied every deficiency, and symmetrized every disproportion. It would not have been for that suc- cessor to resort to any stagnant wasting reservoir of merit in me, or in any ancestry. He had in himself a salient, living spring of generous and manly action. Every day he lived, he would have repurchased the bounty of the crown, and ten times more, if ten times more he had received. He was made a public creature, and had no enjoyment whatever but in the performance of some duty. At this exigent moment the loss of a finished man is not easily supplied. Edmund Burke THE ONE WHO LOVED ME BEST Can I do justice to this man Who was my Father and my Friend? Ol frail, dull pen, help me to-day Immortelles, on his grave to lay. HE sweetest, tenderest memories of my past life, are of my father, and so I shall let his character portray the beauty of the word. He was the grandest man I have ever known My mother's provider, protector and sweet- heart for forty-eight years. He was surely one of the dearest of Fathers, my instructor, loving parent and comrade. As a child the happiest hours I knew were spent at his knee. To- gether we read God's Word, and together we read the poets, and (as I grew in years) history both modern and ancient. Of an intensely sentimental temperament, my preference was for the singers, and how I reveled in DEAR OLD FATHER his interpretation of Shakespeare, Byron and Milton. Oh! the richness of those days! On a dark, starless night we would study "The Raven" and on a bright, sunshiny morning he would bid me bring him Shelly and we would read (verse about) that matchless poem "The Lark." Dear Father! he watched my mind expand as I watch a red rose as it opens a petal at a time. Each day we loved each other more, and his delight grew as he found my ideas broadening, and my ideals reaching higher. Although the years brought other ties into my life, they never weakened this one, between Father and Daughter, and until his death at eighty-three years, we were still companions he the brilliant teacher, I the adoring pupil. Jennie Wright Howell A FATHER'S OBJECT ROM the time that you have had life, it has been the principal and favorite object of mine, to make you as perfect as the imperfection of human nature will allow; in this view I have grudged no pains nor expense in your education; con- vinced that education, more than nature, is the cause of that great difference which we see in the characters of men. While you were a child, I endeavored to form your heart habitually to the virtue and honor, before your understanding was capable of showing you their beauty and utility. Those principles, which you then got like your grammar rules, only by rote, are now, I am persuaded, fixed and confirmed by reason. And indeed they are so plain and clear, that they require but a very moderate degree of understanding, either to comprehend or practise them. Lord Shaftesbury says, very prettily, that he would be virtuous for his own sake, though nobody were to know it; as he would be clean for his own sake, though nobody were to Bee him. I have therefore, since you have had the use of your reason, never written to you upon those subjects; they speak best for themselves; and I should, now, just as soon think of warning you gravely not to fall into the dirt or the fire, as into dishonor or vice. Lord Chesterfield DEAR OLD FATHER DAD'S DREAMS The good old dad ! He is growing old, and his face has lines of care; his steps are slow that were free and bold, and silver is in his hair. And still he works at his weary chores, as the long hours roll away; and not for him are the glad outdoors, and the joyous holiday. His face is sad, but a pleasant smile anon through the sadness gleams, as he rests his head on his hands a while, and closes his eyes and dreams. His dreams are all of his boys and girls, and honors that they'll enjoy; of little May with her golden curls, of Jack, who's a stalwart boy. And Tom is certain to conquer fame, for Tom is a splendid son; he'll bring renown to his father's name, when the old man's work is done. And Jim will probably learn to preach; he's pious, and clean and smart; and throngs will gather to hear him teach the lessons that lift the heart; his voice will tell of the day of wrath, when the portals shall unfold; he'll lead the wanderers to the path that leads to the gates of gold. And Kate, sweet Kate, with the thoughtful brow, and her brave, aspiring heart, will leave the rut that she travels now, and shine in the world of art. And all of his loving girls and boys will useful and help- ful be, and live their lives till they earn the joys that dwell in eternity. The old man raises his head once more, for his dreams are flown away, and he goes ahead with his weary chore, but bis heart is light and gay. Waot Mason. Not in Contest. Written expressly for Mb. Woolard. D CHESTERFIELD'S INTENTION O not think I mean to dictate as a parent; I mean to advise only as a friend, and an in- dulgent one too; and do not apprehend that I mean to check your pleasures; of which, on the contrary. I desire to be only the guide, not the censor. Let my experience supply your want of it and clear your way in the progress of your youth of those thorns and briars which scratched and disfigured me in the course of mine. LoBD Che8TEBFIELD DEAR OLD FATHER *^^^mo*mo^B+mmm*mm>omm< 81XTY-ONK ' AWAY I cannot say, and I will not say That he is dead He is just away! With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand, He has wandered into an unknown land. And left us dreaming how very fair It needs must be, since he lingers there. And you O you, who the wildest yearn For the old-time step and the glad return Think of him faring on, as dear In the love of There as the love of Here; And loyal still, as he gave the blows Of his warrior-strength to his country's foes Mild and gentle, as he was brave When the sweetest love of his life he gave To simple things Where the violets grew Blue as the eyes they were likened to, The touches of his hands have strayed As reverently as his lips have prayed: When the little brown thrush that harshly chirred Was dear to him as the mocking-bird; And he pitied as much as a man in pain A writhing honey-bee wet with rain Think of him still as the same I say: He is not dead he is just awayl James Whitcomb Rilky From "Afterwhiles," Copyright 1887 Used by special permission of the publisher* The Bobbs-Merrill Company I li- es IIUi nil- IP Compilations of SAMUEL FRANCIS WOOLARD tIIII II nn GOOD FELLOWSHIP THE BEAUTIES OF FRIENDSHIP ALL THAT'S LOVE-LY PICTURES OF MEMORY GLORIOUS MOTHER DEAR OLD FATHER THINGS BEAUTIFUL THE SUNSHINE OF LIFE II i s THE B 1 1IH HH 1111 n u GOLDSMITH-WOOLARD PUBLISHING CO. 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