Though poets sing their favorite foods In lilting lines and sweet, And each unto his different moods Tells what he likes to eat, I still remain the little boy Who gleefully would mutter A youngster's gratitude and joy For mother's bread and butter. So now, for all the joy I've had From such a wholesome pair Since first I was a little lad In hunger's deep despair, I hold the finest food of all-- Though epicures may sputter And sneer me from the banquet hall-- Is mother's bread and butter. _The Little Clothes Line_ The little clothes line by the kitchen door! My mother stretched it once when I was young, And there the garments which the baby wore, Each morning, very carefully, she hung. Square bits of flannel fluttered in the breeze, White stockings very delicate and small, Long flowing dresses and the glad bootees, A little blanket and a knitted shawl. Then came the day when mother took it down, And we forgot what symbols fluttered there; We'd grown to breast the current of the town, To fight for conquest and to stand to care. Ten years ago she smiled and said to me: "I want a little clothes line by the door." And there she hung, for all the world to see, The various bits of raiment which he wore. Even the ragman on his alley round Knew, by the symbols fluttering on that line, That there a little baby would be found, And day by day he saw that glorious sign. Then boyhood came and called our babe away, Muscled him strong and turned his cheeks to brown, Gave him the strength to run and romp and play, And then she took the little clothes line down. To-day I sat beside her bed, and she Smiled the sweet smile of motherhood once more. "When I get up again," she said to me, "I'll want a little clothes line by the door." _The Ballad of the Indifferent Whist Player_ I am not much at the game, Careless the things that I do; Those whose approval I claim When I attempt it, are few; Bridge players look in dismay After a hand I have played, Always they icily say: "Why did you lead me a spade?" I, who am gentle and tame, Am scorned by a merciless crew; I bear the brunt and the blame Whenever they mutter, "Down two!" No matter what card I may play, No matter that whist's not my trade, Always they sneeringly say: "Why did you lead me a spade?" Matron, young maiden or dame, Brown eyes or gray eyes or blue, Angrily treat me the same Recalling the cards that I drew. Be it December or May, Ever she starts this tirade With a look that's intended to slay: "Why did you lead me a spade?" _L'Envoi_ Prince, when my soul flies away And my form in the cold ground is laid, Let me rest where nobody will say: "Why did you lead me a spade?" _The Broken Wheel_