There's a sweetness most appealing in the trilling of their notes: It is innocence that's pouring from their little baby throats; And I gaze at them enraptured, for my joy's a real thing Every evening when the kiddies and their mother start to sing. {107} THE BUMPS AND BRUISES DOCTOR I'm the bumps and bruises doctor; I'm the expert that they seek When their rough and tumble playing Leaves a scar on leg or cheek. I'm the rapid, certain curer For the wounds of every fall; I'm the pain eradicator; I can always heal them all. Bumps on little people's foreheads I can quickly smooth away; I take splinters out of fingers Without very much delay. Little sorrows I can banish With the magic of my touch; I can fix a bruise that's dreadful So it isn't hurting much. I'm the bumps and bruises doctor, And I answer every call, And my fee is very simple, Just a kiss, and that is all. And I'm sitting here and wishing In the years that are to be, When they face life's real troubles That they'll bring them all to me. {108} WHEN PA COUNTS Pa's not so very big or brave; he can't lift weights like Uncle Jim; His hands are soft like little girls'; most anyone could wallop him. Ma weighs a whole lot more than Pa. When they go swimming, she could stay Out in the river all day long, but Pa gets frozen right away. But when the thunder starts to roll, an' lightnin' spits, Ma says, "Oh, dear, I'm sure we'll all of us be killed. I only wish your Pa was here." Pa's cheeks are thin an' kinder pale; he couldn't rough it worth a cent. He couldn't stand the hike we had the day the Boy Scouts camping went. He has to hire a man to dig the garden, coz his back gets lame, An' he'd be crippled for a week, if he should play a baseball game. But when a thunder storm comes up, Ma sits an' shivers in the gloam An' every time the thunder rolls, she says: "I wish your Pa was home." I don't know just what Pa could do if he were home, he seems so frail, But every time the skies grow black I notice Ma gets rather pale. An' when she's called us children in, an' locked the windows an' the doors, She jumps at every lightnin' flash an' trembles when the thunder roars. An' when the baby starts to cry, she wrings her hands an' says: "Oh, dear, It's terrible! It's terrible! I only wish your Pa was here." {109} PEACE A man must earn his hour of peace, Must pay for it with hours of strife and care, Must win by toil the evening's sweet release, The rest that may be portioned for his share; The idler never knows it, never can. Peace is the glory ever of a man.