Bridging the Generation Gap

A PLEA FOR FAITH

by Edgar Guest

O Lad of mine, O lad of mine,
be never coldly dumb to me!
Whatever care is on your heart,
be ever quick to come to me.
Come with the truth upon your tongue
and have no fear nor doubt of me—
I have such love for you, my lad,
no hurt can drive it out of me.

O lad of mine, O lad of mine,
your father God has made of me
and shamed I’ll be to go to Him
if ever you’re afraid of me.
I’ll grieve to learn you’ve done a wrong
but ‘twill be worse distress to me,
to find you’ve hid behind a lie
and would not all confess to me.

O lad of mine, O lad of mine,
you are the living part of me—
to find a stranger in my place
would surely break the heart of me.
Keep faith in me; whate’er befalls
I’ll stand and share the worst with you.
No friend shall be so true as I—
but, oh, I must be first with you.

From the Collected Verse of Edgar A. Guest
© 1934 by the Reilly & Lee Company

Pa Did It

by Edgar Guest

The train of cars that Christmas brought
is out of kilter now;
while Pa was showing how they went
he broke the spring somehow.
They used to run around a track —
at least they did when he
would let me take them in my hands
and wind ‘em with a key.
I could’a had some fun with them
if only they would go,
but, Oh! I never had a chance,
for Pa enjoyed them so.

The automobile that I got
that ran around the floor
was lots of fun when it was new,
but it won’t go no more.
Pa wound it up for Uncle Jim
to show him how it went,
and when those two got through with it
the running gear was bent,
and now it doesn’t go at all.
I mustn’t grumble though,
‘Cause while it was in shape to run
my Pa enjoyed it so.

I’ve got my blocks as good as new,
my mitts are perfect yet;
although the snow is on the ground
I haven’t got them wet.
I’ve taken care of everything
that Christmas brought to me,
Except the toys that run about
when wound up with a key.
But next year you can bet I won’t
make any such mistake;
I’m going to ask for toys and things
that my Pa cannot break.

.
From his book, Collected Verse of Edgar A Guest
© 1934 by The Reilly & Lee Company

Hello Everyone,

 

Hope you all had a good Christmas and haven’t broken all your toys, or the kiddies’ toys, yet. I came home on Dec 23rd after ten days in Alberta, so hopefully can get back into blogging harness again.

NOTICE:

All fall I’ve been gathering all my haiku and scheduling posts on Tree Top Haiku. Starting January 1st I’m going to “blog a book” on this site with at least three solid months, one per day, of these micro-poems. If you enjoy haiku, you’ll want to check this out.

Out Fishin’

by Edgar A. Guest

A feller isn’t thinkin’ mean
out fishin’;
His thoughts are mostly good and clean
out fishin’.
He doesn’t knock his fellow men
or harbor any grudges then;
a feller’s at his finest when
out fishin’.

The rich are comrades to the poor
out fishin’;
all brothers of a common lure,
out fishin’.
the urchin with the pin and string
can chum with millionare and king;
vain pride is a forgotten thing
out fishin’.

A feller gets a chance to dream
out fishin’;
he learns the beauties of a stream
out fishin’;
And he can wash his soul in air
that isn’t foul with selfish care,
and relish plain and simple fare,
out fishin’.

A feller has no time for hate
out fishin’;
he isn’t eager to be great
out fishin’.
He isn’t thinkin’ thoughts of pelf,
of goods stacked high upon a shelf,
but he is always just himself
out fishin’.

A feller’s glad to be a friend
out fishin;
a helping hand he’ll gladly lend
out fishin’.
The brotherhood of rod and line
and sky and stream is always fine;
men come real close to God’s design
out fishin’.

A feller isn’t plotting schemes
out fishin’
he’s only busy with his dreams
out fishin;
His livery is a coat of tan,
his creed: to do the best he can.
A feller’s always mostly man
out fishin’.

Taking Turns in the Tub

The Old Wooden Tub

by Edgar Guest

I like to get to thinking of the old days that are gone
when there were joys that nevermore the world will look upon
the days before inventors smoothed the little cares away
and made, what seemed but luxuries then, the joys of every day;
when bathrooms were exceptions and we got our weekly scrub
by standing in the middle of a little wooden tub.

We had no rapid heaters and no blazing gas to burn,
we boiled the water on the stove and each one took his turn.
Sometimes to save expenses we would use one tub for two;
the water brother Billy used for me would also do,
although an extra kettle I was granted, I admit,
on winter nights to freshen and to warm it up a bit.

We carried water up the stairs in buckets and in pails
and sometimes splashed it on our legs, and rent the air with wails,
but if the nights were very cold, by closing every door
we were allowed to take our bath upon the kitchen floor.
Beside the cheery stove we stood and gave ourselves a rub,
in comfort most luxurious in that old wooden tub.

But modern homes no more go through that joyous weekly fun,
and through the sitting rooms at night no half-dried children run,
no little flying tots dash past too swift to see their forms,
with shirts and underwear and things tucked underneath their arms.
The home’s so full of luxury now, it’s almost like a club.
I sometimes wish we could go back to that old wooden tub.
From the Collected Verse of Edgar A. Guest
© 1934 by the Reilly & Lee Company

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Pixabay image

I had to smile when I came across this poem by Edgar Guest. It reminded me of what my employer told me back in 1978.  He was from a farming family of seven: six girl and himself. They grew up in the ‘Dirty Thirties’ in a very dry prairie region (west of Moose jaw, SK) so bath water was scarce, often obtained by melting snow, and all heated on the stove as the poet says.

On Saturday night my employer’s sisters all got to have their baths first (yes, in the same bath water) and he had to be the last. Even with that extra kettle-full of hot water added,  he says the bathwater was pretty murky by the time he set foot in the tub.

 

 

Friendship

 

 

 

 

 

 

by Edgar Guest

You do not need a score of men to laugh and sing with you;
you can be rich in comradeship with just a friend or two.
You do not need a monarch’s smile to light your way along;
through weal or woe a friend or two will fill your days with song.

So let the many go their way and let the throng pass by;
the crowd is but a fickle thing which hears not when you sigh.
The multitudes are quick to run in search of favorites new,
and all that man can hold for grief is just a friend or two.

When winds of failure start to blow, you’ll find the throng has gone —
the splendor of a brighter flame will always lure them on,
but with the ashes of your dreams and all you hoped to do
you’ll find that all you really need is just a friend or two.

You cannot know the multitude, however hard you try:
it cannot sit about your hearth; it cannot hear you sigh;
it cannot read the heart of you, or know the hurts you bear;
its cheers are all for happy men and not for those in care.

So let the throng go on its way and let the crowd depart;
but one or two will keep the faith when you are sick at heart;
and rich you’ll be, and comforted, when gray skies hide the blue,
if you can turn and share your grief with just a friend or two.

From the Collected Verse of Edgar A. Guest
© 1934 by the Reilly & Lee Company

Thanksgiving Day Meditation

The Little Home

by Edgar Guest

The little house is not too small
to shelter friends who come to call.
Though low the roof and small its space
it holds the Lord’s abounding grace
and every simple room may be
endowed with happy memory.

The little house, severely plain,
a wealth of beauty may contain.
Within it those who dwell may find
high faith which makes for peace of mind
and that sweet understanding which
can make the poorest cottage rich.

The little house can hold all things
from which the soul’s contentment springs.
It’s not too small for love to grow,
for all the joys that mortals know,
for mirth and song and that delight
which makes the humblest dwelling bright.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From the Collected Verse of Edgar A. Guest
©1934 by the Reilly & Lee Co

Bedtime

by Edgar A Guest

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 records 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 tomorrow 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.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From Collected Verse of Edgar A. Guest
©1934 by the Reilly & Lee Co.

Awakening

by Edgar A. Guest

Oh, I wanted to be pampered and I wanted to be petted;
I though that Life should run to me with comfort when I fretted
and so I used to wail for joys I had no means of buying,
but Life went on about its work and never heard me crying.

I used to fly in tantrums when some pleasure was denied me;
I fancied everyone was wrong who raised a voice to chide me.
I thought that Life should run to me with pretty things to show me,
but Life went on about its work and never seemed to know me.

I know not how the thought began nor why so long it lasted;
I wanted cake and pie to eat while others bravely fasted;
I wanted easy tasks to do, high pay without the labor,
but Life, I noticed, passed me by to visit with my neighbor.

Then suddenly I faced about – stopped my senseless whining.
Took disappointment with a grin and loss without repining;
I found that woes were everywhere and some would surely strike me;
I strapped my burdens on my back – and Life began to like me.

From his book, The Friendly Way
© 1931 by the Reilly & Lee Co.

Young Men at Seventy-Three

OLD AGE
by Edgar Guest

I used to think that growing old was reckoned just in years,
but who can name the very date when weariness appears?
I find no stated time when man, obedient to a law,
must settle in an easy chair and from the world withdraw.
Old age is rather curious, or so it seems to me;
I know old men at forty and young men at seventy-three.

I’m done with counting life by years or temples turning gray.
No man is old who wakes with joy to greet another day.
What if the body cannot dance with youth’s elastic spring?
There’s many a vibrant interest to which the mind can cling.
It’s in the spirit Age must dwell, or this would never be:
I know old men at forty and young men at seventy-three.

Some men keep all their friendships warm and welcome friendships new;
they have no time to sit and mourn the things they used to do.
This changing world they greet with joy and never bow to fate;
on every fresh adventure they set out with hearts elate.
From chilling fear and bitter dread they keep their spirits free
while some seem old at forty, they stay young at seventy-three.

So much to do, so much to learn, so much in which to share!
With twinkling eyes and minds alert some brave both time and care.
And this I’ve learned from other men, that only they are old
who think with something that has passed the tale of life is told.
For Age is not alone of time, or we should never see
men old and bent at forty and men young at seventy-three.

From the book, Collected Verse of Edgar A. Guest,
©1934 by the Reilly & Lee Co

THE GOLDEN CHANCE

by Edgar Guest

There is in life this golden chance
for every valiant soul,
the unpenned poem or romance—
the undiscovered goal.

Beyond the sum of all we know
and all that man has done,
life holds a never-ending row
of glories to be won.

Still waits the canvas for the paint,
the paper for the pen;
still searches Faith to find a saint
among the ranks of men.

Though man, it seems, has traveled far
along achievement’s way,
his conquests and his triumphs are
but splendors for a day.

In all that is of paint and print,
and marvels which we see,
life gives us but the faintest hint
of splendors yet to be.

On still untraveled roads of fame
the feet of men shall climb,
far nobler goals than ours to claim
from the rich lap of time.

Unreckoned genius yet unborn
undreamed of deeds shall do.
Night ends the old; with every morn
life bids us start the new.

From Collected Verse of Edgar A. Guest
© 1934 by the Reilly & Lee Company