Our friends have automobiles now. The summer cottage where we went To rest beside the water's blue in peace and indolent content Is but an hour's swift ride away. So bright and early Sunday morn Before the breakfast eggs are cooked, we hear the honking of the horn. We must have bathing suits for ten, although our family numbers four; Beds must be made for all who come, though father sleeps upon the floor; Dishes and knives and forks and spoons are gathered in one huge display, For we must be prepared to feed the visitors who come our way. From Friday noon till Monday morn full many a weary trip I take, Rowing the women and their babes upon the bosom of the lake; And by that law which rules a host I'm at the mercy of the crew, I must, until they say good-bye, do everything they wish to do. The chef in yonder large hotel is not a busier man than I, The fish for fifteen hungry mouths it is my duty now to fry, And thus my glad vacation time from dawn to dusk is filled with chores, For friends have made our resting spot the busiest place in all outdoors. _Good Enough_ My son, beware of "good enough," It isn't made of sterling stuff; It's something any man can do, It marks the many from the few, It has no merit to the eye, It's something any man can buy, Its name is but a sham and bluff, For it is never "good enough." With "good enough" the shirkers stop In every factory and shop; With "good enough" the failures rest And lose to men who give their best; With "good enough" the car breaks down And men fall short of high renown. My son, remember and be wise, In "good enough" disaster lies. With "good enough" have ships been wrecked, The forward march of armies checked, Great buildings burned and fortunes lost; Nor can the world compute the cost In life and money it has paid Because at "good enough" men stayed. Who stops at "good enough" shall find Success has left him far behind. There is no "good enough" that's short Of what you can do and you ought. The flaw which may escape the eye And temporarily get by, Shall weaken underneath the strain And wreck the ship or car or train, For this is true of men and stuff-- Only the best is "good enough." _The Chimney Piece_ I would not, if I could, recall some customs that are gone. I'm glad that wreath of immortelles I need not look upon-- That cold, imperishable thing of wax, in colors gay. Which hung upon the parlor wall in Grandma's earlier day, No longer shrieks its warning grim that mortal life must cease-- And yet I'm sorry we have lost the old-time chimney piece.