My Pa believes his temper should be all the time controlled; He doesn't rave at every little thing; When his collar-button underneath the chiffonier has rolled A snatch of merry ragtime he will sing. But the pan beneath the ice box--when to empty that he goes-- As he stoops to drag it out we hear a grunt; From the kitchen comes a rumble, an' then everybody knows That he splashed the water in it down his front. Now the distance from the ice box to the sink's not very far-- I'm sure it isn't over twenty feet-- But though very short the journey, it is long enough for Pa As he travels it disaster grim to meet. And it's seldom that he makes it without accident, although In the summer time it is his nightly stunt; And he says a lot of language that no gentleman should know When the water in it splashes down his front. The March o' Man Down to work o' mornings, an' back to home at nights, Down to hours o' labor, an' home to sweet delights; Down to care an' trouble, an' home to love an' rest, With every day a good one, an' every evening blest. Down to dreary dollars, an' back to home to play, From love to work an' back to love, so slips the day away. From babies back to business an' back to babes again, From parting kiss to welcome kiss, this marks the march o' men. Some care between our laughter, a few hours filled with strife, A time to stand on duty, then home to babes and wife; The bugle sounds o' mornings to call us to the fray, But sweet an' low 'tis love that calls us home at close o' day. INDEX OF FIRST LINES