Never rose to wealth or fame, Simply lived, and simply died, But the passing of his name Left a sorrow, far and wide. Not for glory he'd attained, Nor for what he had of pelf, Were the friends that he had gained, But for what he was himself. {154} WHEN FATHER SHOOK THE STOVE 'Twas not so many years ago, Say, twenty-two or three, When zero weather or below Held many a thrill for me. Then in my icy room I slept A youngster's sweet repose, And always on my form I kept My flannel underclothes. Then I was roused by sudden shock Though still to sleep I strove, I knew that it was seven o'clock When father shook the stove. I never heard him quit his bed Or his alarm clock ring; I never heard his gentle tread, Or his attempts to sing; The sun that found my window pane On me was wholly lost, Though many a sunbeam tried in vain To penetrate the frost. To human voice I never stirred, But deeper down I dove Beneath the covers, when I heard My father shake the stove. To-day it all comes back to me And I can hear it still; He seemed to take a special glee In shaking with a will. He flung the noisy dampers back, Then rattled steel on steel, Until the force of his attack The building seemed to feel. Though I'd a youngster's heavy eyes All sleep from them he drove; It seemed to me the dead must rise When father shook the stove. Now radiators thump and pound And every room is warm, And modern men new ways have found To shield us from the storm. The window panes are seldom glossed The way they used to be; The pictures left by old Jack Frost Our children never see. And now that he has gone to rest In God's great slumber grove, I often think those days were best When father shook the stove. {156} HOUSE-HUNTING Time was when spring returned we went To find another home to rent; We wanted fresher, cleaner walls, And bigger rooms and wider halls, And open plumbing and the dome That made the fashionable home. But now with spring we want to sell, And seek a finer place to dwell. Our thoughts have turned from dens and domes; We want the latest thing in homes; To life we'll not be reconciled Until we have a bathroom tiled. A butler's pantry we desire, Although no butler do we hire; Nell's life will be one round of gloom Without a closet for the broom, And mine will dreary be and sour Unless the bathroom has a shower. For months and months we've sat and dreamed Of paneled walls and ceilings beamed And built-in cases for the books, An attic room to be the cook's. No house will she consent to view Unless it has a sun room, too.