Then as the months went rollin' on, One day the stork brought little John, An' Mary smiled an' said to me; "The proper family is three; Two boys, a girl to romp an' play-- Jus' work enough to fill the day. I never had enough to do, The months that we had only two; Three's jus' right, pa, we don't want more." Still time went on an' we had four. An' that was years ago, I vow, An' we have six fine children now; An' Mary's plumb forgot the day She used to sit an' sweetly say That one child was enough for her To love an' give the proper care; One, two or three or four or five-- Why, goodness gracious, sakes alive, If God should send her ten to-night, She'd vow her fam'ly was jus' right! A Lesson from Golf He couldn't use his driver any better on the tee Than the chap that he was licking, who just happened to be me; I could hit them with a brassie just as straight and just as far, But I piled up several sevens while he made a few in par; And he trimmed me to a finish, and I know the reason why: He could keep his temper better when he dubbed a shot than I. His mashie stroke is choppy, without any follow through; I doubt if he will ever, on a short hole, cop a two, But his putts are straight and deadly, and he doesn't even frown When he's tried to hole a long one and just fails to get it down. On the fourteenth green I faded; there he put me on the shelf, And it's not to his discredit when I say I licked myself. He never whined or whimpered when a shot of his went wrong; Never kicked about his troubles, but just plodded right along. When he flubbed an easy iron, though I knew that he was vexed, He merely shrugged his shoulders, and then coolly played the next, While I flew into a frenzy over every dub I made And was loud in my complaining at the dismal game I played. Golf is like the game of living; it will show up what you are; If you take your troubles badly you will never play to par. You may be a fine performer when your skies are bright and blue But disaster is the acid that shall prove the worth of you; So just meet your disappointments with a cheery sort of grin, For the man who keeps his temper is the man that's sure to win. Father's Chore My Pa can hit his thumbnail with a hammer and keep still; He can cut himself while shaving an' not swear; If a ladder slips beneath him an' he gets a nasty spill He can smile as though he really didn't care. But the pan beneath the ice-box--when he goes to empty that-- Then a sound-proof room the children have to hunt; For we have a sad few minutes in our very pleasant flat When the water in it splashes down his front.