I still can see that little chap upon his homeward way, "She never gave a chance to me," I still can hear him say, And so I write this verse for him, and all the girls and boys Who shall their tutors now and then disturb with needless noise. Be fair, you teachers of our land, in every circumstance; Don't let some little fellow say he never had a chance. _Down the Lanes of August_ Down the lanes of August--and the bees upon the wing-- All the world's in color now, and all the song birds sing; Never reds will redder be, more golden be the gold, Down the lanes of August, and the summer getting old. Mother Nature's brushes now with paints are dripping wet, Gorgeous is her canvas with the tints we can't forget; Here's a yellow wheat field--purple asters there-- Riotous the colors that she's splashing everywhere. Red the cheeks of apples and pink the peaches' bloom, Redolent the breezes with the sweetness of perfume; Everything is beauty, crowned by skies of clearest blue; Mother Earth is at her best once more for me and you. Down the lanes of August, with her blossoms at our feet, Rich with gold and scarlet, dripping wet with honey sweet. Rich or poor, no matter, here are splendors spread-- Down the lanes of August, for all who wish to tread. _Arcady_ Where is the road to Arcady, Where is the path that leads to peace, Where shall I find the bliss to be, Where shall the weary wanderings cease? These are the questions that come to me-- Where is the road to Arcady? Is there a mystic time and place To which some day shall the traveler fare, Where there is never a frowning face And never a burden hard to bear, Where we as children shall romp and race? Is there a mystic time and place? For Arcady is an earthly sphere, Where only the gentlest breezes blow, A port of rest for the weary here, Where the velvet grass and the clover grow. I question it oft, is it far or near? For Arcady is an earthly sphere. And the answer comes--it is very near, It's there at the end of a little street, Where your children's voices are ringing clear And you catch the patter of little feet. Where is the spot that is never drear? And the answer comes--it is very near. For each man buildeth his Arcady, And each man fashions his Port of Rest; And never shall earth spot brighter be Than the little home that with peace is blessed. So seek it not o'er the land and sea-- For each man buildeth his Arcady. _Sacrifices_ Behind full many a gift there lies A splendid tale of sacrifice. On Christmas morn a mother's hand About a young girl's neck will place A trinket small, and she will stand With radiant smiles upon her face To see her daughter decked in gold-- Nor will she think, nor will she care That she may suffer from the cold Because that bauble glistens there.