The handy man about the house Is old and bent and gray; Each morning in the yard he toils, Where all the children play; Some new task every day he finds, Some task he loves to do, The handy man about the house, Whose work is never through. The children stand to see him toil, And watch him mend a chair; They bring their broken toys to him He keeps them in repair. No idle moment Grandpa spends, But finds some work to do, And hums a snatch of some old song, That in his youth he knew. He builds with wood most wondrous things: A table for the den, A music rack to please the girls, A gun case for the men. And 'midst his paints and tools he smiles, And seems as young and gay As any of the little ones Who round him run in play. I stopped to speak with him awhile; "Oh, tell me, Grandpa, pray," I said, "why do you work so hard Throughout the livelong day? Your hair is gray, your back is bent, With weight of years oppressed; This is the evening of your life-- Why don't you sit and rest?" "Ah, no," the old man answered me, "Although I'm old and gray, I like to work out here where I Can watch the children play. The old have tasks that they must do; The greatest of my joys Is working on this shaded porch, And mending children's toys." And as I wandered on, I thought, Oh, shall I lonely be When time has powdered white my hair, And left his mark on me? Will little children round me play, Shall I have work to do? Or shall I be, when age is mine, Lonely and useless too? The New Days The old days, the old days, how oft the poets sing, The days of hope at dewy morn, the days of early spring, The days when every mead was fair, and every heart was true, And every maiden wore a smile, and every sky was blue The days when dreams were golden and every night brought rest, The old, old days of youth and love, the days they say were best But I--I sing the new days, the days that lie before, The days of hope and fancy, the days that I adore.