Bill's mother scolds the same as mine an' calls him in from play To make him wash his face an' hands a dozen times a day. Dirt seems to worry mothers so. But when the plumber comes To fix the pipes, it's plain to see he never scrubs his thumbs; His clothes are always thick with grease, his face is smeared with dirt, An' he is not ashamed to show the smudges on his shirt. The motorman who runs the car has hands much worse than mine, An' I have noticed when we ride there's dirt in every line. The carpenter who works around our house can mend a chair Or put up shelves or fix the floor, an' mother doesn't care That he's not in his Sunday best; she never interferes An' makes him stop his work to go upstairs to wash his ears. The fellers really doing things, as far as I can see. Have hands and necks and ears that are as dirty as can be. The man who fixes father's car when he can't make it go, Most always has a smudgy face--his hands aren't white as snow. But I must wash an' wash an' wash while everybody knows The most important men in town have dirty hands and clo'es. _If I Were a Boss_ If I were a boss I would like to say: "You did a good job here yesterday." I'd look for a man, or a girl, or boy Whose heart would leap with a thrill of joy At a word of praise, and I'd pass it out Where the crowd could hear as I walked about. If I were the boss I would like to find The fellow whose work is the proper kind; And whenever to me a good thing came, I'd ask to be told the toiler's name, And I'd go to him and I'd pat his back And I'd say: "That was perfectly splendid, Jack!" Now a bit of praise isn't much to give, But it's dear to the hearts of all who live; And there's never a man on this good old earth But is glad to be told that he's been of worth; And a kindly word when the work is fair Is welcomed and wanted everywhere. If I were a boss, I am sure I should Say a kindly word whenever I could, For the man who has given his best by day Wants a little more than his weekly pay; He likes to know, with the setting sun, That his boss is pleased with the work he's done. _To the Little Baby_ You know your mother--that's plain as day, But those wide blue eyes of you seem to say When I bend over your crib: "Now who Are you?" It's little figure I cut, I know, And faces trouble a baby so, But I'm the gladdest of all the glad-- Your dad! You're two months old, and you see us smile, And I know you are wondering all the while Whoever on earth can these people be You see. You've learned your mother; you know her well When hunger rattles the dinner bell, But somehow or other you cannot place My face.