As yet, I'm but one of the passing throng, The curious people who come along And pause at your crib, and you seem to say Each day: "I know one voice that is sweet to hear, I know her step when my mother's near, I know her wonderful smile--but who Are you? "You always come with the same old grin, Your finger's rough when you tickle my chin, But you run away when I start to cry, And I Don't understand when visitors call Why you're so afraid they will let me fall. You are the queerest of all the queer Folks here!" It's true that over your crib I stand And tickle your chin with my rough old hand. And I run away when you start to cry, But I Have a right to my queer little funny ways, To boast your worth and to sound your praise, For I am the gladdest of all the glad-- Your dad. _His Work_ There isn't much fame on a farm, an' the farm doesn't pile up the wealth; It gives you an appetite early an' late, an' it's usually lavish with health. The world travels by in its cars, but the men and the women don't see Any reason to cheer anything that I do or pin any medals on me; But I'm doin' my work just the same an' at night-time the Lord an' I know That the wheat's lookin' fine in the acres out there, and I--well, I helped it to grow. Sometimes I get gloomy an' blue an' wish I could rise with the great, An' wish I could point something out which my hands have builded or helped to create; Then the orchard looks over to me an' the fruit-laden trees seem to say, "If it were not for you an' the care that you've given, we wouldn't be bearin' today." An' the acres of corn over there, I planted 'em all, row by row, "The good gift o' nature," the poets declare--but the Lord knows I helped it to grow. I reckon I'm fillin' my place, though workin' all day on the soil An' standin' the heat of the merciless sun isn't listed as glorious toil. There's little of brilliance here, an' there's nothin' to brag of; I guess A farmer's a farmer, an' that's all he is--an' his crops are his only success. But the Lord knows, an' I know it, too, as I plough or I harrow or hoe, That these fields would be barren of wheat an' of corn, if I hadn't helped 'em to grow. _Bread and Butter_ I've eaten chicken a la king And many a fancy dish, I think I've tasted everything The heart of man can wish; But nightly when we dine alone, My grateful praise I utter Unto that good old stand-by, known As mother's bread and butter. Some think it very common fare And may be they are right, But I can take that wholesome pair At morning, noon and night; And there's a happy thrill I feel That sets my heart a-flutter As I sit down to make a meal Of mother's bread and butter.