We can be rich in gentle smiles and sunny: A jeweled soul exceeds a royal crown. The richest men sometimes have little money, And Croesus oft's the poorest man in town. {74} THE EPICURE I've sipped a rich man's sparkling wine, His silverware I've handled. I've placed these battered legs of mine 'Neath tables gayly candled. I dine on rare and costly fare Whene'er good fortune lets me, But there's no meal that can compare With those the missus gets me. I've had your steaks three inches thick With all your Sam Ward trimming, I've had the breast of milk-fed chick In luscious gravy swimming. To dine in swell cafe or club But irritates and frets me; Give me the plain and wholesome grub-- The grub the missus gets me. Two kiddies smiling at the board, The cook right at the table, The four of us, a hungry horde, To beat that none is able. A big meat pie, with flaky crust! 'Tis then that joy besets me; Oh, I could eat until I "bust," Those meals the missus gets me. {75} THE GENTLE GARDENER I'd like to leave but daffodills to mark my little way, To leave but tulips red and white behind me as I stray; I'd like to pass away from earth and feel I'd left behind But roses and forget-me-nots for all who come to find. I'd like to sow the barren spots with all the flowers of earth, To leave a path where those who come should find but gentle mirth; And when at last I'm called upon to join the heavenly throng I'd like to feel along my way I'd left no sign of wrong. And yet the cares are many and the hours of toil are few; There is not time enough on earth for all I'd like to do; But, having lived and having toiled, I'd like the world to find Some little touch of beauty that my soul had left behind. {76} THE FINEST AGE When he was only nine months old, And plump and round and pink of cheek, A joy to tickle and to hold, Before he'd even learned to speak, His gentle mother used to say: "It is too bad that he must grow. If I could only have my way His baby ways we'd always know." And then the year was turned, and he Began to toddle round the floor And name the things that he could see And soil the dresses that he wore. Then many a night she whispered low: "Our baby now is such a joy I hate to think that he must grow To be a wild and heedless boy." But on he went and sweeter grew, And then his mother, I recall, Wished she could keep him always two, For that's the finest age of all. She thought the selfsame thing at three, And now that he is four, she sighs To think he cannot always be The youngster with the laughing eyes.