He’s taken out his papers, an’ his step is light to-day,
For a load is off his shoulders an’ he treads an easier way;
An’ he’ll tell you, if you ask him, so that you can understand,
Just what freedom means to people who have known some other land.

Castor Oil

I don’t mind lickin’s, now an’ then,
An’ I can even stand it when
My mother calls me in from play
To run some errand right away. 
There’s things ‘bout bein’ just a boy
That ain’t all happiness an’ joy,
But I suppose I’ve got to stand
My share o’ trouble in this land,
An’ I ain’t kickin’ much—­but, say,
The worst of parents is that they
Don’t realize just how they spoil
A feller’s life with castor oil.

Of all the awful stuff, Gee Whiz! 
That is the very worst there is. 
An’ every time if I complain,
Or say I’ve got a little pain,
There’s nothing else that they can think
’Cept castor oil for me to drink. 
I notice, though, when Pa is ill,
That he gets fixed up with a pill,
An’ Pa don’t handle Mother rough
An’ make her swallow nasty stuff;
But when I’ve got a little ache,
It’s castor oil I’ve got to take.

I don’t mind goin’ up to bed
Afore I get the chapter read;
I don’t mind being scolded, too,
For lots of things I didn’t do;
But, Gee!  I hate it when they say,
“Come!  Swallow this—­an’ right away!”
Let poets sing about the joy
It is to be a little boy,
I’ll tell the truth about my case: 
The poets here can have my place,
An’ I will take their life of-toil
If they will take my castor oil.

A Father’s Wish

What do I want my boy to be? 
Oft is the question asked of me,
And oft I ask it of myself—­
What corner, niche or post or shelf
In the great hall of life would I
Select for him to occupy? 
Statesman or writer, poet, sage
Or toiler for a weekly wage,
Artist or artisan?  Oh, what
Is to become his future lot? 
For him I do not dare to plan;
I only hope he’ll be a man.

I leave it free for him to choose
The tools of life which he shall use,
Brush, pen or chisel, lathe or wrench,
The desk of commerce or the bench,
And pray that when he makes his choice
In each day’s task he shall rejoice. 
I know somewhere there is a need
For him to labor and succeed;
Somewhere, if he be clean and true,
Loyal and honest through and through,
He shall be fit for any clan,
And so I hope he’ll be a man.

I would not build my hope or ask
That he shall do some certain task,
Or bend his will to suit my own;
He shall select his post alone. 
Life needs a thousand kinds of men,
Toilers and masters of the pen,
Doctors, mechanics, sturdy hands
To do the work which it commands,
And wheresoe’er he’s pleased to go,
Honor and triumph he may know. 
Therefore I must do all I can
To teach my boy to be a man.