Oh, when I get big and have children, too,
There’s one thing that I will never do—­
I won’t have brothers to tease the girls
And make them mad when they pull their curls
And laugh at them when they’ve got to stay
And practice their music an hour a day;
I won’t have a maid like the one we’ve got,
That likes to boss you around a lot;
And I won’t have a clock that can go so slow
When it’s practice time, ’cause I hate it so.

The Christmas Gift for Mother

In the Christmas times of the long ago,
There was one event we used to know
  That was better than any other;
It wasn’t the toys that we hoped to get,
But the talks we had—­and I hear them yet—­
  Of the gift we’d buy for Mother.

If ever love fashioned a Christmas gift,
Or saved its money and practiced thrift,
  ’Twas done in those days, my brother—­
Those golden times of Long Gone By,
Of our happiest years, when you and I
  Talked over the gift for Mother.

We hadn’t gone forth on our different ways
Nor coined our lives into yesterdays
  In the fires that smelt and smother,
And we whispered and planned in our youthful glee
Of that marvelous “something” which was to be
  The gift of our hearts to Mother.

It had to be all that our purse could give,
Something she’d treasure while she could live,
  And better than any other. 
We gave it the best of our love and thought,
And, Oh, the joy when at last we’d bought
  That marvelous gift for Mother!

Now I think as we go on our different ways,
Of the joy of those vanished yesterdays. 
  How good it would be, my brother,
If this Christmas-time we could only know
That same sweet thrill of the Long Ago
  When we shared in the gift for Mother.

Bedtime

It’s bedtime, and we lock the door,
Put out the lights—­the day is o’er;
All that can come of good or ill,
The record of this day to fill,
Is written down; the worries cease,
And old and young may rest in peace.

We knew not when we started out
What dangers hedged us all about,
What little pleasures we should gain,
What should be ours to bear of pain. 
But now the fires are burning low,
And this day’s history we know.

No harm has come.  The laughter here
Has been unbroken by a tear;
We’ve met no hurt too great to bear,
We have not had to bow to care;
The children all are safe in bed,
There’s nothing now for us to dread.

When bedtime comes and we can say
That we have safely lived the day. 
How sweet the calm that settles down
And shuts away the noisy town! 
There is no danger now to fear
Until to-morrow shall appear.

When the long bedtime comes, and I
In sleep eternal come to lie—­
When life has nothing more in store,
And silently I close the door,
God grant my weary soul may claim
Security from hurt and shame.