There are little eyes upon you, and they're watching night and day; There are little ears that quickly take in every word you say; There are little hands all eager to do everything you do, And a little boy that's dreaming of the day he'll be like you. You're the little fellow's idol, you're the wisest of the wise; In his little mind about you no suspicions ever rise; He believes in you devoutly, holds that all you say and do He will say and do in your way when he's grown up just like you. Oh, it sometimes makes me shudder when I hear my boy repeat Some careless phrase I've uttered in the language of the street; And it sets my heart to grieving when some little fault I see And I know beyond all doubting that he picked it up from me. There's a wide-eyed little fellow who believes you're always right, And his ears are always open and he watches day and night; You are setting an example every day in all you do For the little boy who's waiting to grow up to be like you. The Change-Worker A feller don't start in to think of himself, an' the part that he's playin' down here, When there's nobody lookin' to him fer support, an' he don't give a thought to next year. His faults don't seem big an' his habits no worse than a whole lot of others he knows, An' he don't seem to care what his neighbors may say, as heedlessly forward he goes. He don't stop to think if it's wrong or it's right; with his speech he is careless or glib, Till the minute the nurse lets him into the room to see what's asleep in the crib. An' then as he looks at that bundle o' red, an' the wee little fingers an' toes, An' he knows it's his flesh an' his blood that is there, an' will be just like him when it grows, It comes in a flash to a feller right then, there is more here than pleasure or pelf, An' the sort of a man his baby will be is the sort of a man he's himself. Then he kisses the mother an' kisses the child, an' goes out determined that he Will endeavor to be just the sort of a man that he's wantin' his baby to be. A feller don't think that it matters so much what he does till a baby arrives; He sows his wild oats an' he has his gay fling an' headlong in pleasure he dives; An' a drink more or less doesn't matter much then, for life is a comedy gay, But the moment a crib is put in the home, an' a baby has come there to stay, He thinks of the things he has done in the past, an' it strikes him as hard as a blow, That the path he has trod in the past is a path that he don't want his baby to go.