In search of smiles this little ship Each evening starts upon a trip; Just smiles enough to last the day Is it allowed to bring away; So nightly to some golden shore It must set out alone for more, And sail the rippling sea for miles Until the hold is full of smiles. By gentle hands the sails are spread; The stars are glistening overhead And in that hour when tiny ships Prepare to make their evening trips The sea becomes a wondrous place, As beautiful as mother's face; And all the day's disturbing cries Give way to soothing lullabies. No clang of bell or warning shout Is heard on shore when they put out; The little vessels slip away As silently as does the day. And all night long on sands of gold They cast their nets, and fill the hold With smiles and joys beyond compare, To cheer a world that's sad with care. The Cookie-Lady She is gentle, kind and fair, And there's silver in her hair; She has known the touch of sorrow, But the smile of her is sweet; And sometimes it seems to me That her mission is to be The gracious cookie-lady To the youngsters of the street. All the children in the block Daily stand beside the crock, Where she keeps the sugar cookies That the little folks enjoy; And no morning passes o'er That a tapping at her door Doesn't warn her of the visit Of a certain little boy. She has made him feel that he Has a natural right to be In her kitchen when she's baking Pies and cakes and ginger bread; And each night to me he brings All the pretty, tender things About little by-gone children That the cookie-lady said. Oh, dear cookie-lady sweet, May you beautify our street With your kind and gentle presence Many more glad years, I pray; May the skies be bright above you, As you've taught our babes to love you; You will scar their hearts with sorrow If you ever go away. Life is strange, and when I scan it, I believe God tries to plan it, So that where He sends his babies In that neighborhood to dwell, One of rare and gracious beauty Shall abide, whose sweetest duty Is to be the cookie-lady That the children love so well. Pleasure's Signs There's a bump on his brow and a smear on his cheek That is plainly the stain of his tears; At his neck there's a glorious sun-painted streak, The bronze of his happiest years. Oh, he's battered and bruised at the end of the day, But smiling before me he stands, And somehow I like to behold him that way. Yes, I like him with dirt on his hands. Last evening he painfully limped up to me His tale of adventure to tell; He showed me a grime-covered cut on his knee, And told me the place where he fell. His clothing was stained to the color of clay, And he looked to be nobody's lad, But somehow I liked to behold him that way, For it spoke of the fun that he'd had.