a heap o’ livin’(一堆生物)

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A Heap O' Livin'

by Edgar A. Guest

To the Little Mother and the Memory of the Big Father, This Simple

Book Is Affectionately Dedicated

A Heap O' Livin'

Just Folks

We're queer folks here.We'll talk about the weather,The good times we

have had together, The good times near,The roses buddin', an' the

beesOnce more upon their nectar sprees;The scarlet fever scare, an'

whoCame mighty near not pullin' through,An' who had light attacks, an'

allThe things that int'rest, big or small; But here you'll never hear of

sinnin' Or any scandal that's beginnin'. We've got too many other labors To

scatter tales that harm our neighbors.

We're strange folks here.We're tryin' to be cheerful,An' keep this home

from gettin' tearful. We hold it dearToo dear for pettiness an' meanness,An'

nasty tales of men's uncleanness.Here you shall come to joyous

smilin',Secure from hate an' harsh revilin';Here, where the wood fire

brightly blazes,You'll hear from us our neighbor's praises. Here, that they'll

never grow to doubt us, We keep our friends always about us; An' here,

though storms outside may pelter Is refuge for our friends, an' shelter.

We've one rule here,An' that is to be pleasant.The folks we know are

always present, Or very near.An' though they dwell in many places,We

think we're talkin' to their faces;An' that keeps us from only seein'The

faults in any human bein',An' checks our tongues when they'd go

trailin'Into the mire of mortal failin'. Flaws aren't so big when folks are

near you; You don't talk mean when they can hear you. An' so no scandal

here is started, Because from friends we're never parted.

As It Goes

In the corner she's left the mechanical toy,On the chair is her Teddy

Bear fine; The things that I thought she would really enjoyDon't seem to

be quite in her line. There's the flaxen-haired doll that is lovely to seeAnd

really expensively dressed, Left alone, all uncared for, and strange though

it be,She likes her rag dolly the best.

Oh, the money we spent and the plans that we laidAnd the wonderful

things that we bought! There are toys that are cunningly, skillfully

made,But she seems not to give them a thought. She was pleased when she

woke and discovered them there,But never a one of us guessed That it isn't

the splendor that makes a gift rare--She likes her rag dolly the best.

A Heap O' Livin'

There's the flaxen-haired doll, with the real human hair,There's the

Teddy Bear left all alone, There's the automobile at the foot of the

stair,And there is her toy telephone; We thought they were fine, but a little

child's eyesLook deeper than ours to find charm, And now she's in bed,

and the rag dolly liesSnuggled close on her little white arm.

Hollyhocks

Old-fashioned flowers! I love them all: The morning-glories on the

wall, The pansies in their patch of shade, The violets, stolen from a glade,

The bleeding hearts and columbine, Have long been garden friends of

mine; But memory every summer flocks About a clump of hollyhocks.

The mother loved them years ago; Beside the fence they used to grow,

And though the garden changed each year And certain blooms would

disappear To give their places in the ground To something new that mother

found, Some pretty bloom or rosebush rare-- The hollyhocks were always

there.

It seems but yesterday to me She led me down the yard to see The first

tall spires, with bloom aflame, And taught me to pronounce their name.

And year by year I watched them grow, The first flowers I had come to

know. And with the mother dear I'd yearn To see the hollyhocks return.

The garden of my boyhood days With hollyhocks was kept ablaze; In

all my recollections they In friendly columns nod and sway; And when to-

day their blooms I see, Always the mother smiles at me; The mind's bright

chambers, life unlocks Each summer with the hollyhocks.

Sacrifice

When he has more than he can eat To feed a stranger's not a feat.When

he has more than he can spend It isn't hard to give or lend.Who gives but

what he'll never miss Will never know what giving is.He'll win few praises

from his Lord Who does but what he can afford.The widow's mite to

heaven went Because real sacrifice it meant.

Reward

Don't want medals on my breast,Don't want all the glory, I'm not

worrying greatly lestThe world won't hear my story. A chance to dream

beside a streamWhere fish are biting free; A day or two, 'neath skies of

blue,Is joy enough for me.

A Heap O' Livin'

I do not ask a hoard of gold,Nor treasures rich and rare; I don't want all

the joys to hold;I only want a share. Just now and then, away from

menAnd all their haunts of pride, If I can steal, with rod and reel,I will be

satisfied.

I'll gladly work my way through life;I would not always play; I only

ask to quit the strifeFor an occasional day. If I can sneak from toil a

weekTo chum with stream and tree, I'll fish away and smiling sayThat

life's been good to me.

See It Thrnugh

When you're up against a trouble,Meet it squarely, face to face; Lift

your chin and set your shoulders,Plant your feet and take a brace. When

it's vain to try to dodge it,Do the best that you can do; You may fail, but

you may conquer,See it through!

Black may be the clouds about youAnd your future may seem grim,

But don't let your nerve desert you;Keep yourself in fighting trim. If the

worst is bound to happen,Spite of all that you can do, Running from it will

not save you,See it through!

Even hope may seem but futile,When with troubles you're beset, But

remember you are facingJust what other men have met. You may fail, but

fall still fighting;Don't give up, whate'er you do; Eyes front, head high to

the finish.See it through!

To the Humble

If all the flowers were roses,If never daisies grew, If no old-fashioned

posiesDrank in the morning dew, Then man might have some reasonTo

whimper and complain, And speak these words of treason,That all our toil

is vain.

If all the stars were SaturnsThat twinkle in the night, Of equal size and

patterns,And equally as bright, Then men in humble places,With humble

work to do, With frowns upon their facesMight trudge their journey

through.

But humble stars and posiesStill do their best, although They're planets

not, nor roses,To cheer the world below. And those old-fashioned

daisiesDelight the soul of man; They're here, and this their praise is:They

work the Master's plan.

A Heap O' Livin'

Though humble be your labor,And modest be your sphere, Come, envy

not your neighborWhose light shines brighter here. Does God forget the

daisiesBecause the roses bloom? Shall you not win His praisesBy toiling

at your loom?

Have you, the toiler humble,Just reason to complain, To shirk your

task and grumbleAnd think that it is vain Because you see a brotherWith

greater work to do? No fame of his can smotherThe merit that's in you.

When Nellie's on the Job

The bright spots in my life are when the servant quits the place,

Although that grim disturbance brings a frown to Nellie's face; The week

between the old girl's' reign and entry of the new Is one that's filled with

happiness and comfort through and through. The charm of living's back

again--a charm that servants rob-- I like the home, I like the meals, when

Nellie's on the job.

There's something in a servant's ways, however fine they be, That has

a cold and distant touch and frets the soul of me. The old home never

looks so well, as in that week or two That we are servantless and Nell has

all the work to do. There is a sense of comfort then that makes my pulses

throb And home is as it ought to be when Nellie's on the job.

Think not that I'd deny her help or grudge the servant's pay; When one

departs we try to get another right away; I merely state the simple fact that

no such joys I've known As in those few brief days at home when we've

been left alone. There is a gentleness that seems to soothe this selfish elf

And, Oh, I like to eat those meals that Nellie gets herself!

You cannot buy the gentle touch that mother gives the place; No

servant girl can do the work with just the proper grace. And though you

hired the queen of cooks to fashion your croquettes, Her meals would not

compare with those your loving comrade gets; So, though the maid has

quit again, and she is moved to sob, The old home's at its finest now, for

Nellie's on the job.

The Old, Old Story

I have no wish to rail at fate,And vow that I'm unfairly treated; I do not

give vent to my hateBecause at times I am defeated. Life has its ups and

downs, I know,But tell me why should people say Whenever after fish I

A Heap O' Livin'

go:"You should have been here yesterday"?

It is my luck always to strikeA day when there is nothing doing, When

neither perch, nor bass, nor pikeMy baited hooks will come a-wooing.

Must I a day late always be?When not a nibble comes my way Must

someone always say to me:"We caught a bunch here yesterday"?

I am not prone to discontent,Nor over-zealous now to climb; If victory

is not yet meantFor me I'll calmly bide my time. But I should like just

once to goOut fishing on some lake or bay And not have someone mutter:

"Oh,You should have been here yesterday."

The Pup

He tore the curtains yesterday,And scratched the paper on the wall;

Ma's rubbers, too, have gone astray--She says she left them in the hall; He

tugged the table cloth and brokeA fancy saucer and a cup; Though Bud

and I think it a jokeMa scolds a lot about the pup.

The sofa pillows are a sight,The rugs are looking somewhat frayed,

And there is ruin, left and right,That little Boston bull has made. He slept

on Buddy's counterpane--Ma found him there when she woke up. I think it

needless to explainShe scolds a lot about the pup.

And yet he comes and licks her handAnd sometimes climbs into her

lap And there, Bud lets me understand,He very often takes his nap. And

Bud and I have learned to knowShe wouldn't give the rascal up: She's

really fond of him, althoughShe scolds a lot about the pup.

Since Jessie Died

We understand a lot of things we never did before, And it seems that to

each other Ma and I are meaning more. I don't know how to say it, but

since little Jessie died We have learned that to be happy we must travel

side by side. You can share your joys and pleasures, but you never come to

know The depth there is in loving, till you've got a common woe.

We're past the hurt of fretting--we can talk about it now: She slipped

away so gently and the fever left her brow So softly that we didn't know

we'd lost her, but, instead, We thought her only sleeping as we watched

beside her bed. Then the doctor, I remember, raised his head, as if to say

What his eyes had told already, and Ma fainted dead away.

Up to then I thought that money was the thing I ought to get; And I

A Heap O' Livin'

fancied, once I had it, I should never have to fret. But I saw that I had

wasted precious hours in seeking wealth; I had made a tidy fortune, but I

couldn't buy her health. And I saw this truth much clearer than I'd ever

seen before: That the rich man and the poor man have to let death through

the door.

We're not half so keen for money as one time we used to be; I am

thinking more of mother and she's thinking more of me. Now we spend

more time together, and I know we're meaning more To each other on life's

journey, than we ever meant before. It was hard to understand it! Oh, the

dreary nights we've cried! But we've found the depth of loving, since the

day that Jessie died.

Hard Luck

Ain't no use as I can see In sittin' underneath a tree An' growlin' that

your luck is bad, An' that your life is extry sad; Your life ain't sadder than

your neighbor's Nor any harder are your labors; It rains on him the same

as you, An' he has work he hates to do; An' he gits tired an' he gits cross,

An' he has trouble with the boss; You take his whole life, through an'

through, Why, he's no better off than you.

If whinin' brushed the clouds away I wouldn't have a word to say; If it

made good friends out o' foes I'd whine a bit, too, I suppose; But when I

look around an' see A lot o' men resemblin' me, An' see 'em sad, an' see

'em gay With work t' do most every day, Some full o' fun, some bent with

care, Some havin' troubles hard to bear, I reckon, as I count my woes,

They're 'bout what everybody knows.

The day I find a man who'll say He's never known a rainy day, Who'll

raise his right hand up an' swear In forty years he's had no care, Has never

had a single blow, An' never known one touch o' woe, Has never seen a

loved one die, Has never wept or heaved a sigh, Has never had a plan go

wrong, But allus laughed his way along; Then I'll sit down an' start to

whine That all the hard luck here is mine.

Vacation Time

Vacation time! How glad it seemed When as a boy I sat and dreamed

Above my school books, of the fun That I should claim when toil was

done; And, Oh, how oft my youthful eye Went wandering with the patch

A Heap O' Livin'

of sky That drifted by the window panes O'er pleasant fields and dusty

lanes, Where I would race and romp and shout The very moment school

was out. My artful little fingers then Feigned labor with the ink and pen,

But heart and mind were far away, Engaged in some glad bit of play. The

last two weeks dragged slowly by; Time hadn't then learned how to fly. It

seemed the clock upon the wall From hour to hour could only crawl, And

when the teacher called my name, Unto my cheeks the crimson came, For

I could give no answer clear To questions that I didn't hear. "Wool

gathering, were you?" oft she said And smiled to see me blushing red. Her

voice had roused me from a dream Where I was fishing in a stream, And,

if I now recall it right, Just at the time I had a bite.

And now my youngsters dream of play In just the very selfsame way;

And they complain that time is slow And that the term will never go. Their

little minds with plans are filled For joyous hours they soon will build,

And it is vain for me to say, That have grown old and wise and gray, That

time is swift, and joy is brief; They'll put no faith in such belief. To

youthful hearts that long for play Time is a laggard on the way. 'Twas, Oh,

so slow to me back then Ere I had learned the ways of men!

The Little Hurts

Every night she runs to me With a bandaged arm or a bandaged knee,

A stone-bruised heel or a swollen brow, And in sorrowful tones she tells

me how She fell and "hurted herse'f to-day" While she was having the

"bestest play."

And I take her up in my arms and kiss The new little wounds and

whisper this: "Oh, you must be careful, my little one, You mustn't get hurt

while your daddy's gone, For every cut with its ache and smart Leaves

another bruise on your daddy's heart."

Every night I must stoop to see The fresh little cuts on her arm or knee;

The little hurts that have marred her play, And brought the tears on a

happy day; For the path of childhood is oft beset With care and trouble and

things that fret.

Oh, little girl, when you older grow, Far greater hurts than these you'll

know; Greater bruises will bring your tears, Around the bend of the lane of

years, But come to your daddy with them at night And he'll do his best to

A Heap O' Livin'

make all things right.

The Lanes of Memory

Adown the lanes of memory bloom all the flowers of yesteryear, And

looking back we smile to see life's bright red roses reappear, The little

sprigs of mignonette that smiled upon us as we passed, The pansy and the

violet, too sweet, we thought those days, to last.

The gentle mother by the door caresses still her lilac blooms, And as

we wander back once more we seem to smell the old perfumes, We seem

to live again the joys that once were ours so long ago When we were little

girls and boys, with all the charms we used to know.

But living things grow old and fade; the dead in memory remain, In all

their splendid youth arrayed, exempt from suffering and pain; The little

babe God called away, so many, many years ago, Is still a little babe to-

day, and I am glad that this is so.

Time has not changed the joys we knew; the summer rains or winter

snows Have failed to harm the wondrous hue of any dew-kissed bygone

rose; In memory 'tis still as fair as when we plucked it for our own, And

we can see it blooming there, if anything more lovely grown.

Adown the lanes of memory bloom all the joys of yesteryear, And God

has given you and me the power to make them reappear; For we can settle

back at night and live again the joys we knew And taste once more the old

delight of days when all our skies were blue.

The Day of Days

A year is filled with glad events:The best is Christmas day, But every

holiday presentsIts special round of play, And looking back on boyhood

nowAnd all the charms it knew, One day, above the rest, somehow,Seems

brightest in review. That day was finest, I believe;Though many grown-

ups scoff, When mother said that we could leaveOur shoes and stockings

off.

Through all the pleasant days of springWe begged to know once more

The joy of barefoot wanderingAnd quit the shoes we wore; But always

mother shook her headAnd answered with a smile: "It is too soon, too

soon," she said."Wait just a little while." Then came that glorious day at

lastWhen mother let us know That fear of taking cold was pastAnd we

A Heap O' Livin'

could barefoot go.

Though Christmas day meant much to me,And eagerly I'd try The first

boy on the street to beThe Fourth day of July, I think: the summit of my

joyWas reached that happy day Each year, when, as a barefoot boy,I

hastened out to play. Could I return to childhood fair,That day I think I'd

choose When mother said I needn't wearMy stockings and my shoes.

A Fine Sight

I reckon the finest sight of allThat a man can see in this world of ours

Ain't the works of art on the gallery wall,Or the red an' white o' the fust

spring flowers, Or a hoard o' gold from the yellow mines;But the' sight

that'll make ye want t' yell Is t' catch a glimpse o' the fust pink signsIn yer

baby's cheek, that she's gittin' well.

When ye see the pink jes' a-creepin' backT' the pale, drawn cheek, an'

ye note a smile, Then th' cords o' yer heart that were tight, grow slackAn'

ye jump fer joy every little while, An' ye tiptoe back to her little bedAs

though ye doubted yer eyes, or were Afraid it was fever come back

instead,An' ye found that th' pink still blossomed there.

Ye've watched fer that smile an' that bit o' bloomWith a heavy heart fer

weeks an' weeks; An' a castle o' joy becomes that roomWhen ye glimpse

th' pink 'in yer baby's cheeks. An' out o' yer breast flies a weight o'

care,An' ye're lifted up by some magic spell, An' yer heart jes' naturally

beats a prayerO' joy to the Lord 'cause she's gittin' well.

Manhood's Greeting

I've' felt some little thrills of pride, I've inwardly rejoiced Along the

pleasant lanes of life to hear my praises voiced; No great distinction have I

claimed, but in a humble way Some satisfactions sweet have come to

brighten many a day; But of the joyous thrills of life the finest that could

be Was mine upon that day when first a stranger "mistered" me.

I had my first long trousers on, and wore a derby too, But I was still a

little boy to everyone I knew. I dressed in manly fashion, and I tried to act

the part, But I felt that I was awkward and lacked the manly art. And then

that kindly stranger spoke my name and set me free; I was sure I'd come to

manhood on the day he "mistered" me.

I never shall forget the joy that suddenly was mine, The sweetness of

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AHeapO'Livin'1AHeapO'Livin'byEdgarA.GuestTotheLittleMotherandtheMemoryoftheBigFather,ThisSimpleBookIsAffectionatelyDedicatedAHeapO'Livin'2JustFolksWe'requeerfolkshere.We'lltalkabouttheweather,Thegoodtimeswehavehadtogether,Thegoodtimesnear,Therosesbuddin',an'thebeesOncemoreupontheirnectarsprees;Thesc...

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