A lilac bush is a lovely thing Wherever it blossoms in early spring, But I have a tenderer regard For the old-time bush in an old-time yard, With the house near-by and the youngsters flown, And the old folks living there all alone, For always I fancy I can see The visions that cling to the lilac tree. The house still stands, but the walls are still, And the storms have battered each window sill; There's a tired, worn look on the humble place, Like the weary look on the mother's face, Yet somehow or other I seem to know That joy reigned here in the long ago, And somehow or other I seem to see The dreams which cling to the lilac tree. Time was those feeble hands were strong And the faltering footsteps danced along; Time was youth romped in that lonely place, But never the years will halt their pace, And the young must go, but the old will cling To the home they've loved to the final Spring, For they hear the laughter that used to be, When the bloom comes back to the lilac tree. A lilac bush is a lovely thing Wherever it blossoms in early spring, But, bent with age and the smiles and tears Which come to all with the passing years, It seems to me that it wears the glow Of the golden days of the long ago, For all that remains of the youth long gone Is the lilac tree still blossoming on. _A Boy's Feet_ I got a cowlick, an' it stands Up straight, an' I got dirty hands, An' if it shows a single speck I have to go an' wash my neck, An' every day Ma squints an' peers To see if I have washed my ears; But I ain't ever really neat All on account of havin' feet. These feet of mine are always wrong, I mustn't shuffle 'em along Or kick a stone that's in the way, Or if I do someone will say: "I wish you'd lift your feet a bit; The way you walk gives me a fit! Those shoes were new a week ago An' now you've busted out the toe." They're always peckin' at me, too, For standin' like the fellers do. An' just because my toes turn in, The teacher makes the pupils grin By tellin' me ten times a day: "Please turn your toes the other way!" An' even when I'm in my seat She kicks if I just swing my feet. If I get nervous an' I put One shoe upon the other foot, Or scrape the floor, they say: "My land! Is that the way a boy should stand?" An' if I rest 'em on a chair, Ma says: "Don't put your feet up there!" An' if I sit on them they roar: "Please put your feet upon the floor!" I'm gettin' tired of all this talk About the way I stand or walk, An' anyhow it seems to me, At least as far as I can see, My feet aren't any different than The other fellers 'round here, an' Some day my temper will explode-- It ain't my fault I'm pigeon-toed. _Old-Fashioned Remedies_