The Wishing Little Boy

There was a Little Boy, with two little eyes,

And he had a little head that was just the proper size,

And two little arms, and two little hands;

On two little legs this Little Boy stands.

Now, this little boy would now and then be cross

Because that he could only be the very thing he was;

He wanted this, and then he wanted that;

His head was full of wishes underneath his little hat.

“I wish I was a drummer to beat a kettle-drum,

I wish I was a giant to say Fee-fo-fi-faw-fum;

I wish I was a captain to go sailing in a ship;

I wish I was a huntsman to crack a nice whip.

“I wish I was a horse to go sixty miles an hour;

I wish I was the man that lives up in the lighthouse tower;

I wish I was a seagull with two long wings;

I wish I was a traveller to see all sorts of things.

“I wish I was a carpenter, I wish I was a lord;

I wish I was a soldier with pistol and a sword;

I wish I was the man that goes high in a balloon;

I wish, I wish, I wish I could be something else, and soon!”

But all the wishing in the world is not a bit of use;

That Little Boy, this very day, he stands in his own shoes;

That Little Boy is still but little Master What-do-you-call,

As much as if that Little Boy had never wished at all!

-       William B. Rands[1]

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[1] Born in 1823 in England, William Brighty Rands published several volumes of children’s literature anonymously and contributed to various periodicals under the pseudonyms Matthew Browne, Henry Holbeach, and T. Talker. He worked as a reporter in the House of Commons and died in 1882. (Source: poemhunter.com)

A Case of Honesty

Dick had been working in the office nearly a month before his employer told him he was too dishonest to work longer; he must justify the high recommendations for honesty that his teachers and others had given him, or else he must find a job elsewhere.

Dick was stunned.  He flushed crimson and swallowed hard.  It was difficult to believe that he heard aright.

“Dishonest?” he said at last, “Do you mean that you think I am a thief?”

“Dishonesty always means theft of some kind,” answered Mr. Wood.  “The kind that you are guilty of is dishonesty just the same.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will in a minute.  In the four weeks that you have been here you have been late in getting to work half a dozen mornings, and several times at noon you have taken much more time than we allow for luncheon.  That is taking something that does not belong to you—something that I have bought and paid for.  Isn’t that theft?”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” admitted Dick, “but—“

“And not only have you stolen time that belonged to me,” continued Mr. Wood, “but you have stolen the time of others and the attention that they should have given to their work.  For example, the superintendent tells me that you came to him three times yesterday about finding the firm to which you were sent to deliver a small parcel.  It is true that the firm has changed its place of business, but you could easily have traced it by means of the directory or the telephone book.  Some might call it laziness or lack of self-reliance on your part, but I call it plain dishonesty, for you were using the time and the thought of a busy fellow worker in doing what you are expected to do yourself, and are perfectly able to do and are paid to do.”

“Yes, I see,” admitted Dick again.

“Once I left you here to file some papers and close the office at night,” continued Mr. Wood.  “The next morning I found the door of the vault wide open.  That was more than carelessness, more than the neglect to obey orders.  It was an offer to help any thief who might have come along that night.  It was the misuse of valuable things that did not belong to you.

“I might mention other instances, but these will show what I mean when I say that you have not been honest since you have been working here—honest with yourself or honest with me.  But I am going to give you a trial for another month.  See if you cannot live up to those recommendations of honesty that you brought when I hired you.”

His tone was gentle and his smile friendly as he laid his hand on Dick’s shoulder; and the boy thanked him.  “I think that I understand,” he said, “and I’ll try to be honest in the biggest and broadest sense of the term”

-       Youth’s Companion[1]

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[1] The Youth’s Companion (1827-1929) was an American children’s magazine. It was published for over one hundred years until it finally merged with American Boy in 1929. (Source: Wikipedia)

The Tides of Life

The seasons on the wing of time both come and go

The tides of life with joys and sorrows ebb and flow;

We know not what the future holds in store

Yet sure we are of one thing, evermore

God reigns and rules with wisdom most benign,

And when our wills submissive, show the sign

Of truth and fellowship and love, He leads;

And though the way be rocky, great our needs,

He is the all-sufficient comfort to our souls

And buoys us up o’er sorrow’s waves and shoals,

Until the harbor comes in sight at last

And bitter tears and heartbreaks are all past.

So God, the guiding Captain of our lives,

With Christ, the Pilot, guides us to the skies.

-       Burdette L. Main

When the Chickens Come Home to Roost

This old poem was requested lately, and two readers have kindly sent the words.  These verses are sometimes entitled “The Setting Up is Certain.”

You may take the world as it comes and goes,

And you will be sure to find

That fate will square the account she owes,

Whosoever comes out behind;

And all things bad that a man has done,

By whatsoever induced,

Return at last to him, one by one,

As the chickens come home to roost.

You may scrape and toil and pinch and save

While your hoarded wealth expands,

Till the cold, dark shadow o’ the grave

Is nearing your life’s last sands;

You will have your balances struck some night,

And you’ll find your hoard reduced,

You’ll view your life in another light

When the chickens come home to roost.

You can’t stint your soul and starve your heart

With the husks of a barren creed,

But Christ will know, if you play your part,

Will know in your hour of need.

And then as you wait for death to come,

What hope can there be deduced

From a creed alone?  You will lie there dumb

While your chickens come home to roost.

Sow as you will, there’s a time to reap

For the good and the bad as well;

And conscience, whether we wake or sleep,

Is either a heaven or hell;

And every wrong will find its place,

And every passion loosed

Drifts back and meets you face to face,

When the chickens come home to roost.

Whether you’re over or under the sod,

The result will be the same;

You cannot escape the hand of God

You must bear your sin and shame;

No matter what’s carved on a marble slab,

When the items are all produced,

You’ll find that Saint Peter was keeping tab,

And that chickens come home to roost.

-       Anonymous

The Skeptic’s Daughter

By R. E. Winsett[1]

On the banks of Rosendale’s[2] water

Where the blooming flowers smiled;

Lived a pure and lovely daughter,

A rich skeptic’s only child.

Crowned with knowledge, health and beauty,

Learned in all her classic lore;

And for virtue, love and duty,

She was queen of Rosedale’s shore.

Famed for genius, sense and wisdom,

She became her parents’ pride;

When she gained the skeptic’s system,

She was almost deified,

Far and wide they saw her power

Over all disputants rise;

And her genius seemed to tower

Like a goddess in their eyes.

A large meeting was progressing

Near her father’s flowery grove,

Where poor sinners were professing

All the bliss of Christian love.

“Father, let me show the Bible

To this poor illiterate clan?

That it’s nothing but a libel

On the character of man.”

“Go, my daughter, you are able

To destroy their Sabbath theme;

Go and prove their Book a fable

And their doctrine all a dream.”

Dressed in all her pride and glory

She went forth to join the throng;

Where she heard the Gospel story

Both in sermon and in song.

Soon a thrill of deep conviction

Seized upon her slumbering soul;

Filled her heart with an affliction

That her mind could not control.

Calmly rose she without falter;

All her follies bade farewell;

And came in before the altar,

Where in humble prayer she fell.

Casting all her care on heaven,

Every prayer went to the throne;

Till her sins were all forgiven,

And the Saviour was her own.

Then she hastened to her father,

To inform him of God’s love;

And to tell her aged mother

There’s a better world above.

Well, my daughter, it’s reported

You have joined the ignorant horde,

To their doctrines been converted

All against your father’s word.

Oh dear father, show me favor,

I’ve not joined the ignorant horde,

But I’ve found my blessed Savior,

Who is Christ, the risen Lord.

Well, my daughter, your behavior

Seals your doom without delay,

You must either leave your Savior,

Or your father’s house today.

Oh dear father, I will love you

Though you drive me from your door,

None on earth I’ll place above you,

But I love my Savior more.

Then begone from me forever,

I will see your face no more,

All your kindred thus you sever

When you leave your father’s door.

Only let me have your favor,

And I’ll be your willing slave,

But I sure can’t leave my Savior,

No, I’d rather see my grave!

There’s your likeness, clothes and purses,

Take them, and at once depart,

For your prayers seem more like curses

To your father’s broken heart.

Goodbye, father, will you meet me

Where the happy millions dwell?

Here’s my hand.  Oh, will you meet me

Where we’ll never say farewell?

My dear mother, I have often

Thought of riches, pride and wealth,

But I’m now an outcast orphan

With no home or friend on earth.

Though my father and my mother

Drive me homeless from their door,

I’ve a friend more dear than either

Who will keep me evermore.

Leaving mansion, fields and fountain,

From the scene she turned away,

Up the wild and rocky mountain

Where her path in twilight lay.

To the bright and distant sago

Slowly did she tromp along

While her voice in lovely echo

Filled the valley with her song.

Rosedale’s evening mild and gentle

In sweet zephyr found the moor,

And the night had spread a mantle

When the skeptic left his door.

Oh dear Mary, come and listen

To the lovely voice I hear,

Oh come quick, for now my system

Feels a weight I cannot bear.

The wife came to the veranda

Where she heard the tunes abroad,

Oh dear husband, it’s Amanda

In sweet congress with her Lord.

Hear it through the starry regions

How the heavenly anthems rise,

Oh dear husband, her religion

Is the gospel of the skies.

But the words were scarcely spoken

Ere she sank in anguish wild

And the father’s heart was broken,

As he fled toward his child.

Up the mountain, dark and lonesome,

Guided by her lovely song,

Clasped his daughter to his bosom,

“O my child!  Forgive this wrong.”

“O come home and save your father,

‘Tis your prayer that lets him live;

Come, my child, embrace your mother,

And our wretched hearts forgive.”

“Yes, my parents, I’ll go to you,

And we’ll join the heav’nly theme,

Singing glory, hallelujah,

To our Saviour’s glorious name.”

Shouting glory to her Saviour,

She returned in heavenly love;

Where her parents soon found favor,

In the joys of heaven above.

They with all their sins forgiven

Went rejoicing on their way

To their home high up in heaven,

In the realms of endless day.[3]

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[1] Robert Emmett Winsett was born on a farm in Bledsoe County, Tennessee in 1876.  He was interested in religious music, and graduated from the Bowman Normal School for Music in 1899.  In 1903 he founded the R. E. Winsett Song Book Publishing Company.  His books proved popular among the Free Will Baptists, General Baptists, Holiness, and the newly emerging Pentecostal Church.  Robert married Birdie Bell Harris; they had three sons and two daughters.  They made their home in Fort Smith, Arkansas.  While there, Robert joined the Church of God (7^th Day), where he eventually became a minister.  Following his wife’s death, he returned to Tennessee.  In 1930, he married Mary Edmonton; they had three children. A contemporary described him:

The blue eyed, gray haired Winsett was a home­bo­dy. He didn’t mix with others much ex­cept at camp meet­ings and sing­ing con­ven­tions, where he would lead the live­ly sing­ing. His on­ly rec­re­a­tion was hik­ing in the woods, where he would touch the leaves of the trees and the wild flow­ers that grew in abun­dance in the Ten­nes­see mount­ains. He would stay in the woods for hours, com­mun­ing with his Cre­at­or, then re­turn to his of­fice for work. Mrs. Win­sett said ne­ver was there a more sin­cere per­son about his re­li­gious con­vict­ions.

Winsett wrote and composed over 1,000 gospel songs in his lifetime.  He died in 1952.  (Source: cyberhymnal.org)

[2] Probably Rosedale, Tennessee, through which flows the upper New River.

[3] From Ozark Folksongs by Vance Randolph:

There is a printed version of this piece in Songs of the Kingdom (pub. R. E. Winsett, East Chattanooga, Tenn., n.d.), where it is described as “a true story in song”; the words are anonymous, and the music credited to F. T. Alexander….Under the names Rosedale Waters and Rosedale Shores this item is still popular with the so-called Holy Rollers in the Ozark country.

The Weaver

I sat at my loom in silence,

Facing the westering sun;

The warp was rough and tangled

And the threads unevenly run.

Impatient I pulled at the fibers—

They snapped and flew from my hands;

Weary and faint and sore-hearted

I gathered the broken strands.

I had beautiful color to work with—

White, blue like heaven above,

And tangled in all the meshes

Were the golden threads of love;

But the colors were dulled by my handling,

The pattern was faded and gray,

That once to my eager seeming

Shone fairer than flowers of May.

But, alas! Not the half of my pattern

Was finished at set of sun.

What should I say to the Master

When I heard him call, “Is it done?”

And I threw down my shuttle in sorrow

(I had worked through the livelong day)

And I lay down to slumber in darkness,

Too weary even to pray.

In my dreams a vision of splendor,

An angel, shining-faced,

With gentle and tender finger

The work of the weavers traced.

He stooped with a benediction

O’er the loom of my neighbor near,

For the threads were smooth and even

And the pattern perfect and clear.

Then I waited in fear and trembling

As he stood by my tangled skein,

For the look of reproach and pity

That I knew would add to my pain.

Instead, with a thoughtful aspect

He turned his gaze upon me,

And I knew he saw the fair picture

Of my work as I hoped it would be.

And with touch divine of his finger

He traced my faint copy anew,

Transforming the clouded colors

And letting the pattern shine through.

And I knew in that moment of waiting,

While his look pierced my very soul through,

I was judged not so much by my doing

As by what I had striven to do.

The Boy Convict’s Story

I’d rather sit here, Mr. Sheriff—up near to the end of the car;

We won’t do so much advertising if we stay in the seat where we are.

That sweet little dude saw the bracelets that you on my wrists have bestowed,

And tells the new passengers promptly you’re “taking me over the road.”

I’ve had a well-patronized trial—the neighbors all know of my fall;

But when I get out among strangers, I’m sensitive-like, after all.

For I was a lad of good prospects, some three or four summers ago—

There wasn’t any boy in our township who made a more promising show!

I learned all of Solomon’s proverbs, and took in their goodness and worth,

Till I felt like a virtue-hooped barrel, chock-full of the salt of the earth.

And this precious picnic of sorrow would likely enough have been saved,

If I had had less of a heart, sir, or home had contained what it craved.

For the time when a boy is in danger of walking a little bit wild,

Is when he’s too young to be married, too old to be known as a child;

A bird in the lonely grass thickets, just out of the parent tree thrown,

Too large to be kept in the old nest, too small to have one of his own;

When desolate mid his companions, his soul is a stake to be won;

‘Tis then that the devil stands ready to get a good chance to catch on!

O yes!  I’d a good enough home, sir, so far as the house was concerned;

My parents were first-class providers; I ate full as much as I earned.

My clothes were all built of good timber, and fit every day to be seen

There wasn’t any lock on the pantry, my bedroom was tidy and clean,

And taking the home up and down, sir, I’d more than an average part.

With one quite important exception—there wasn’t any room for my heart.

The house couldn’t have been any colder with snowdrifts in every room;

The house needn’t have been any darker to make a respectable tomb!

I used to stop short on the doorstep, and brace up a minute or more,

And bid good-by to the sunshine, before I would open the door;

I used to feed daily on icebergs, take in all the freeze I could hold,

Then go out and warm in the sunshine, because my poor heart was so cold!

And hadn’t I a father and mother?  O yes! Just as good as they make—

Too good, I have often suspected (though maybe that last’s a mistake).

But they traveled so long and so steady the way to perfection’s abode,

They hadn’t any feeling for fellows who could not as yet find the road;

And so, till some far-advanced milepost on goodness’s pike I could win,

They thought of me, not as their own child, but one of the children of sin.

And hadn’t I brothers and sisters?  O yes! Till they somewhat had grown;

Then shivering, they went off and left me to stand the cold weather alone;

For I had the luck to be youngest, the last on the family page,

The one to prop up the old rooftree, the staff of my parents’ old age,

Who well understood all the uses to which a mere staff is applied;

They used me whenever convenient, then carelessly threw me aside!

And hadn’t I any associates?  O yes! I had friends, more or less,

But seldom I asked them to visit our house with the slightest success.

Whenever the project was mentioned, they’d somehow look blue-like and chill,

And mention another engagement they felt it their duty to fill;

For—now I am only a convict, there’s no harm in telling the truth—

My home was a fearful wet blanket to blood that was seasoned with youth!

Not one blessed thing that was cheerful; no festivals, frolics, or games;

No stories of any description—‘twas wicked to mention their names.

My storybooks suddenly vanished; my checkerboards never would keep;

No newspaper came through our doorway unless it was first put to sleep!

And as for love—well, that old song, sir, is very melodious and fine,

With “No place like home” in the chorus—I hope there ain’t many like mine!

And so, soon my body got hating a place which my soul couldn’t abide,

And Pleasure was all the time smiling, and motioning me to her side;

And when I start out on a journey, I’m likely to go it by leaps

For good or for bad, I’m no halfway—I’m one or the other for keeps.

My wild oats flew thicker and faster; I reaped the same crop that I sowed,

And now I am going to market, I’m taking it over the road!

Yes, it grieved my good father and mother to see me so sadly astray;

They deeply regretted my downfall, in a strictly respectable way;

They gave me some more admonition, and sent me off full of advice,

And wondered to see such a villain from parents so good and precise.

Indeed, I have often conjectured, when full of neglect and its smarts,

I must have been left on the doorstep of their uncongenial hearts!

My home in the prison is waiting—it opens up clear to my sight;

Hard work and no pay day a-coming, a close cell to sleep in at night.

And there I must lie, sad and lonesome, with more tribulation than rest,

And wake in the morning with sorrow sharp sticking like steel in my breast;

But maybe the strain and the trouble won’t quite so much o’er me prevail,

As ‘twould be to some one who wasn’t brought up in a kind of a jail.

You’ve got a good home, Mr. Sheriff, with everything cozy and nice

And ‘tisn’t for a wrist-shackle convict to offer you words of advice;

But this I must say: Of all places your children may visit or call,

Make home the most pleasant and happy, the sweetest and best of them all.

For the devil won’t offer a dollar to have his world chances improved,

When home is turned into a side show, with half the attractions removed!

Don’t think I’m too bitter, good sheriff; I like you; you’ve been very good;

I’m ever and ever so grateful, would pay it all back if I could.

I didn’t mean to slander my parents, I’ve nothing against their good name;

And as for my unrighteous actions, it’s mostly myself that’s to blame.

Still if I’d had a home—but the prison is only one station ahead—

I’m done, Mr. Sheriff; forget me, but don’t forget what I have said!

-       Will Carleton[1]

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[1] Born in 1845, in rural Michigan, Will Carleton was the fifth child and third son of John Hancock and Celeste (Smith) Carleton. In 1869, he graduated from Hillsdale College and delivered on that occasion the poem, Rifts in the Cloud. From there, he worked as a newspaper journalist in Hillsdale, then as editor of the Detroit Weekly Tribune. His first significant work published was Betsy and I Are Out, a poignant tale of a divorce first published in the Toledo Blade, but then reprinted by Harper’s Weekly.  This was followed in 1872 by Over the Hill to the Poor House, developing the plight of the aged and those with indifferent families. This captured national attention and catapulted Carleton into literary prominence —a position he was to hold the rest of his life as he continued to write and to lecture from coast to coast.

In 1878, Will moved to Boston, where he married Anne Goodell. They moved to New York City in 1882. In 1907, he returned to his hometown of Hudson, Michigan as a renowned poet. The Michigan legislature passed a law making it a duty upon teachers to teach at least one of his poems to children in school. Schools and roads are named for him in Michigan, and at one time October 21^st was “Will Carleton Day.”  He died in 1912.

On June 24, 2007, the Associated Press Michigan News reported “the neglected burial plot of the family of rural Michigan poet, Will Carleton, whose 1872 work, Over the Hill to the Poor House, thrust him into national prominence, is getting a makeover.” Sic transit gloria mundi.  (Source: Wikipedia)

The Ledger of Heaven

O, the wonderful ledger the angels keep!

And the watchful eyelids that never sleep,

And the tireless penmen that watch and weep

Over the words they write!

How oft are the hearts of the angels pained,

And how oft are the pages soiled and stained!

How much is lost and how little gained

In struggling for the right!

‘Tis thus I mused, in the twilight gray,

In the deep’ning gloom at the close of day,

Ere I rev’rently knelt by my couch to pray,

And laid me down to rest.

And I dreamed that a glorious angel fair

Had borne me away through the boundless air,

To the pearly gates of that city where

Dwelt the good and blest.

O, the peace I felt, as my mortal tongue

Joined in the songs that the seraphs sung,

As back were the massive portals flung

At the touch of the angel’s hand!

We stood on the banks of the river wide,

Which flows from the throne in a crystal tide,

And I safely followed my shining guide

Over that blissful land.

Still on through the ambient air we sped,

Till he laid his hand on my trembling head;

“Behold the ledger of heaven,” he said,

And quick on my wond’ring view

There seemed to flash, like a ray of light,

The mystic pen of an angel bright,

As he wrote in the ledger pure and white

The record of life—so true!

And every deed of my life was there—

The careless word and the honest prayer;

And some of the pages were white and fair,

And others were soiled with sin.

And the thoughts of my heart that were long concealed

Were written down and all revealed.

And, O, how I wished that the book were sealed,

And the record were hid within!

And my cheek was crimson as, one by one,

I read the record of deeds I’d done,

And of victories lost that I might have won,

In the hour of mortal strife,

And of gentle words that I might have said;

But, ah! There were hasty words instead;

And now were the golden moments fled,

And mine was a misspent life!

“O, had I but known!” in my grief I cried,

And weeping turned to the angel’s side.

“I bring thee hope,” said the angel guide,

“Thy Saviour has prayed for thee;

And thou shalt return to the earth again,

And dwell once more ‘mong the sons of men.

But, O, remember the angel’s pen!

Ah! What shall thy record be?”

With tears of joy at length I woke,

And rose from my couch, for the morn had broke.

“The Lord be praised!” were the words I spoke,

“For the beautiful lesson given.

I will guard my lips with a jealous care,

I will keep my heart from the tempter’s snare,

Lest sin be found on the pages fair

Of the record book of heaven.”

My soul, how oft have the angels wept

Over the shameful record kept,

While the daughters of Zion have idly slept,

Nor dreamed of their fearful doom!

O, haste, for the moments are passing fast,

Ere the summer is ended, the harvest past,

And the ledger of heaven is read at last,

And the King of kings shall come!

            - Mrs. L. D. Avery-Smith