Now the children’s hearts are sore
For he comes to them no more,
And no more to them he whistles
  And no more for them he stops;
But in Paradise, I think,
With his chuckle and his wink,
He is leading little angels
  To the heavenly candy shops.

A Vanished Joy

When I was but a little lad of six and seven and eight,
One joy I knew that has been lost in customs up-to-date,
Then Saturday was baking day and Mother used to make,
The while I stood about and watched, the Sunday pies and cake;
And I was there to have fulfilled a small boy’s fondest wish,
The glorious privilege of youth—­to scrape the frosting dish!

On Saturdays I never left to wander far away—­
I hovered near the kitchen door on Mother’s baking day;
The fragrant smell of cooking seemed to hold me in its grip,
And naught cared I for other sports while there were sweets to sip;
I little cared that all my chums had sought the brook to fish;
I chose to wait that moment glad when I could scrape the dish.

Full many a slice of apple I have lifted from a pie
Before the upper crust went on, escaping Mother’s eye;
Full many a time my fingers small in artfulness have strayed
Into some sweet temptation rare which Mother’s hands had made;
But eager-eyed and watery-mouthed, I craved the greater boon,
When Mother let me clean the dish and lick the frosting spoon.

The baking days of old are gone, our children cannot know
The glorious joys that childhood owned and loved so long ago. 
New customs change the lives of all and in their heartless way
They’ve robbed us of the glad event once known as baking day. 
The stores provide our every need, yet many a time I wish
Our kids could know that bygone thrill and scrape the frosting dish.

“Carry On”

They spoke it bravely, grimly, in their darkest hours of doubt;
They spoke it when their hope was low and when their strength gave out;
We heard it from the dying in those troubled days now gone,
And they breathed it as their slogan for the living:  “Carry on!”

Now the days of strife are over, and the skies are fair again,
But those two brave words of courage on our lips should still remain;
In the trials which beset us and the cares we look upon,
To our dead we should be faithful—­we have still to “carry on!”

“Carry on!” through storm and danger, “carry on” through dark despair,
“Carry on” through hurt and failure, “carry on” through grief and care;
’Twas the slogan they bequeathed us as they fell beside the way,
And for them and for our children, let us “carry on!” to-day.

Life’s Single Standard

There are a thousand ways to cheat and a thousand ways to sin;
There are ways uncounted to lose the game, but there’s only one way to win;
And whether you live by the sweat of your brow or in luxury’s garb you’re
    dressed,
You shall stand at last, when your race is run, to be judged by the single
    test.