Throughout the year life is so full of trouble, Saint Valentine, alas! is shoved aside; Beneath grim work the lover's back must double, And then he lets poor sentiment go slide! We try to think of what you'd have us say, dear, But when we've coaxed a good thought half way out, A money-making idea's in the way, dear, And then Love's gentle troops are put to rout. So--with a business missive in each hand-- Will three words do? Or do you more demand? Gone are the days when troubadors sang daily Of hearts and flowers, lips and eyes and hair; We take (I fear) our deep emotions gaily, And think we haven't time to love or care. Yet once a year it shouldn't be impossible To Valentine a little, that is true; Then gloss the faults of mine you think are glossible, And I will troubador a bit for you; So, by the stars that shine above you, Hark to my valentine, my dear, _I love you!_ BECAUSE--! This thing of writing "homely verse," With country phrases, jokes and slang; With "jiminies!" "by hecks!" and such, With "backwoods" odor, taste and tang-- This thing, I say, of making light Of country life is funny--Not! I'd like to know where we would be If farms were all to go to pot! We talk a lot of "backyard farms," "Intensive gard'ning"--"how to raise All vegetables that you need On ten square feet in twenty days." We figure fortunes that six hens Will bring us--if we keep 'em penned; And yet, when farmers are the butt Of jokes, who rises to defend? I'm weary of this silly pose, This pseudo-humor, sickly wit; I will not laugh or even smile When at the farmers jokesmiths hit. Especially this time of year I do denounce it! (Uncle Jim Out on his farm lives well--and he Has asked us all to visit him!) THAT SMILE I sure do like that kid, although I know He's rotten spoiled, and ought to be suppressed. He's boiling over with boy-nonsense! So The neighbors have no chance to get a rest. Not bad, you understand; just "some unlucky" In getting caught at things, once in a while; Yet when he does, he never runs--he's plucky! But plays that smile of his, that flashing smile. Sometimes when he has done a foolish thing-- Like "hoeing weeds" with our best garden hose, Or in the rose bed "built a min'rul spring," He's bound to make me peevish, goodness knows! Yet when he tries to "'splain it all" to me, I don't succumb a moment to his guile; I'm stern, as stern, indeed, as I can be-- Until he smiles that mother-given smile! Perhaps he doesn't understand how strong A weapon he possesses--Gracious me! Disarmed by it, I can not right the wrong By scolding him, however forcefully. I do believe, if Fate itself were bent On breaking him, 'twould hesitate a while And feel ashamed!... He wins without intent Because--God bless him!--he knows _when_ to smile. THE GIFT OF GIFTS