- Published on
What Is a Boy?
Between the innocence of babyhood and the dignity of manhood we find a delightful creature called a boy. Boys come in assorted sizes, weights, and colors, but all boys have the same creed: To enjoy every second of every minute of every hour of every day and to protest with noise (their only weapon) when their last minute is finished and the adult males pack them off to bed at night.
Boys are found everywhere - on top of, underneath, inside of, climbing on, swinging from, running around, or jumping to. Mothers love them, little girls hate them, older sisters and brothers tolerate them, adults ignore them, and Heaven protects them. A boy is Truth with dirt on its face, Beauty with a cut on its finger, Wisdom with bubble gum in its hair, and the Hope of the future with a frog in its pocket.
When you are busy, a boy is an inconsiderate, bothersome, intruding jangle of noise. When you want him to make a good impression, his brain turns to jelly or else he becomes a savage, sadistic jungle creature bent on destroying the world and himself with it.
A boy is a composite - he has the appetite of a horse, the digestion of a sword swallower, the energy of a pocket-size atomic bomb, the curiosity of a cat, the lungs of a dictator, the imagination of Paul Bunyan, the shyness of a violet, the audacity of a steel trap, the enthusiasm of a fire-cracker, and when he makes something, he has five thumbs on each hand.
He likes ice cream, knives, saws, Christmas, comic books, the boy across the street, woods, water (in its natural habitat), large animals, Dad, trains, Saturday mornings, and fire engines. He is not much for Sunday school, company, schools, books without pictures, music lessons, neckties, barbers, girls, overcoats, adults, or bedtime.
Nobody else is so early to rise, or so late to supper. Nobody else gets so much fun out of trees, dogs, and breezes. Nobody else can cram into one pocket a rusty knife, a half-eaten apple, 3 feet of string, an empty Bull Durham sack, 2 gum drops, 6 cents, a sling shot, a chunk of unknown substance, and a genuine supersonic code ring with a secret compartment in it.
A boy is a magical creature - you can lock him out of your workshop, but you can't lock him out of your heart. You can get him out of your study, but you can't get him out of your mind. Might as well give up - he is your captor, your jailer, your boss, and your master - a freckle-faced, pint-sized, cat-chasing bundle of noise. But when you come home at night with only the shattered pieces of your hopes and dreams, he can mend them with the two magic words, "Hi, dad!"
by Alan Marshall Beck: as published in “New England Mutual Life Insurance” (1949) house magazine
Between the innocence of babyhood and the dignity of manhood we find a delightful creature called a boy. Boys come in assorted sizes, weights, and colors, but all boys have the same creed: To enjoy every second of every minute of every hour of every day and to protest with noise (their only weapon) when their last minute is finished and the adult males pack them off to bed at night.
Boys are found everywhere - on top of, underneath, inside of, climbing on, swinging from, running around, or jumping to. Mothers love them, little girls hate them, older sisters and brothers tolerate them, adults ignore them, and Heaven protects them. A boy is Truth with dirt on its face, Beauty with a cut on its finger, Wisdom with bubble gum in its hair, and the Hope of the future with a frog in its pocket.
When you are busy, a boy is an inconsiderate, bothersome, intruding jangle of noise. When you want him to make a good impression, his brain turns to jelly or else he becomes a savage, sadistic jungle creature bent on destroying the world and himself with it.
A boy is a composite - he has the appetite of a horse, the digestion of a sword swallower, the energy of a pocket-size atomic bomb, the curiosity of a cat, the lungs of a dictator, the imagination of Paul Bunyan, the shyness of a violet, the audacity of a steel trap, the enthusiasm of a fire-cracker, and when he makes something, he has five thumbs on each hand.
He likes ice cream, knives, saws, Christmas, comic books, the boy across the street, woods, water (in its natural habitat), large animals, Dad, trains, Saturday mornings, and fire engines. He is not much for Sunday school, company, schools, books without pictures, music lessons, neckties, barbers, girls, overcoats, adults, or bedtime.
Nobody else is so early to rise, or so late to supper. Nobody else gets so much fun out of trees, dogs, and breezes. Nobody else can cram into one pocket a rusty knife, a half-eaten apple, 3 feet of string, an empty Bull Durham sack, 2 gum drops, 6 cents, a sling shot, a chunk of unknown substance, and a genuine supersonic code ring with a secret compartment in it.
A boy is a magical creature - you can lock him out of your workshop, but you can't lock him out of your heart. You can get him out of your study, but you can't get him out of your mind. Might as well give up - he is your captor, your jailer, your boss, and your master - a freckle-faced, pint-sized, cat-chasing bundle of noise. But when you come home at night with only the shattered pieces of your hopes and dreams, he can mend them with the two magic words, "Hi, dad!"
by Alan Marshall Beck: as published in “New England Mutual Life Insurance” (1949) house magazine
- Published on
Someone is Watching
Someone is watching
And that is a fact.
Someone will copy
The way that I act;
So make this your motto
And put it to use:
Be someone’s example
And not his excuse.
by Kathy McDonald
Someone is watching
And that is a fact.
Someone will copy
The way that I act;
So make this your motto
And put it to use:
Be someone’s example
And not his excuse.
by Kathy McDonald
- Published on
Be True to You
As you set out on life’s road
unsure of the path you’ll go,
the most important thing you can do
is to always be true to you.
Always remember who you are
in moments of struggle or fear.
Never forget or give up on
the hopes and dreams you hold dear.
There will be setbacks and rejection
and moments of failure too,
but you must overcome any frustration
to achieve the potential of you.
Don’t forget to smile, or laugh,
or to live in the present;
no matter where life takes you
make every memory pleasant.
As you travel along your journey,
know that you’re never alone
and I’ll always be here for you
should you need the comfort of home.
by Author Unknown
As you set out on life’s road
unsure of the path you’ll go,
the most important thing you can do
is to always be true to you.
Always remember who you are
in moments of struggle or fear.
Never forget or give up on
the hopes and dreams you hold dear.
There will be setbacks and rejection
and moments of failure too,
but you must overcome any frustration
to achieve the potential of you.
Don’t forget to smile, or laugh,
or to live in the present;
no matter where life takes you
make every memory pleasant.
As you travel along your journey,
know that you’re never alone
and I’ll always be here for you
should you need the comfort of home.
by Author Unknown
- Published on
Raising Boys
I scrub the wall of fingerprints,
Pick up the mounds of clothes.
I sweep the dirt that shoes track in -
Wish I could use a hose!
Meals are served from dawn to dark,
Dirty dishes crowd the sink.
Just when they’re washed and put away -
Everyone wants a drink!
The washer pulls the dirty grime
From pants worn thin and patched.
They look so very neat and clean -
Yuck, look what the pockets hatched!
Broken bones and bloody knees,
I should have been a nurse.
I take it all in shaky stride -
Just grateful it’s not worse!
Screams and shouts and arguments
Test the keeping of my cool.
They left the neighbor’s faucet on -
See their new front yard pool!
A soothing bath is ecstasy,
A reward at the end of my rope.
Raising boys isn’t really bad -
But first I must wash the soap!
A rose can say I Love You,
Orchids can enthrall;
But a weed bouquet in a chubby fist,
Oh my, that says it all!
by Roberta I. Teague
I scrub the wall of fingerprints,
Pick up the mounds of clothes.
I sweep the dirt that shoes track in -
Wish I could use a hose!
Meals are served from dawn to dark,
Dirty dishes crowd the sink.
Just when they’re washed and put away -
Everyone wants a drink!
The washer pulls the dirty grime
From pants worn thin and patched.
They look so very neat and clean -
Yuck, look what the pockets hatched!
Broken bones and bloody knees,
I should have been a nurse.
I take it all in shaky stride -
Just grateful it’s not worse!
Screams and shouts and arguments
Test the keeping of my cool.
They left the neighbor’s faucet on -
See their new front yard pool!
A soothing bath is ecstasy,
A reward at the end of my rope.
Raising boys isn’t really bad -
But first I must wash the soap!
A rose can say I Love You,
Orchids can enthrall;
But a weed bouquet in a chubby fist,
Oh my, that says it all!
by Roberta I. Teague
- Published on
Story Hour
Each night, before you sleep, you wait to hear a tale unfold;
Hansel and Gretel, Puss-in-Boots, King Midas and his gold;
I read the old familiar words and watch your shining eyes
The moment that you know the Frog’s a fine Prince in disguise;
We hear the Emperor’s nightingale; we wander through the night
To find the seven kindly dwarfs who loved the fair Snow White;
My heart grows lighter every time we climb the twilit stair -
Tonight the maiden Rapunzel lets down her golden hair!
I know this story time will pass; that you will soon be grown
To sit, with book in hand, beside a daughter of your own.
Then will your heart remember, then will you understand
How magical can be the gates that lead to Fairyland -
The way they swing, to show, beyond, a lost, enchanted street
Where tired mothers run again - on winged, small-girl feet.
by Beulah Fenderson Smith
Beulah Fenderson Smith was born on 31 March 1915 in Ogunquit, Maine, United States of America. She became a poet, and also a columnist under the heading “Touchtone” for the “York County Coast Star” newspaper. Together with her husband Robert Smith, she owned and operated the Elmere Campground. Beulah Fenderson Smith passed on at 96 years of age on 29 June 2011 in Kittery, Maine, United States of America.
Each night, before you sleep, you wait to hear a tale unfold;
Hansel and Gretel, Puss-in-Boots, King Midas and his gold;
I read the old familiar words and watch your shining eyes
The moment that you know the Frog’s a fine Prince in disguise;
We hear the Emperor’s nightingale; we wander through the night
To find the seven kindly dwarfs who loved the fair Snow White;
My heart grows lighter every time we climb the twilit stair -
Tonight the maiden Rapunzel lets down her golden hair!
I know this story time will pass; that you will soon be grown
To sit, with book in hand, beside a daughter of your own.
Then will your heart remember, then will you understand
How magical can be the gates that lead to Fairyland -
The way they swing, to show, beyond, a lost, enchanted street
Where tired mothers run again - on winged, small-girl feet.
by Beulah Fenderson Smith
Beulah Fenderson Smith was born on 31 March 1915 in Ogunquit, Maine, United States of America. She became a poet, and also a columnist under the heading “Touchtone” for the “York County Coast Star” newspaper. Together with her husband Robert Smith, she owned and operated the Elmere Campground. Beulah Fenderson Smith passed on at 96 years of age on 29 June 2011 in Kittery, Maine, United States of America.
- Published on
I Trust You’ll Treat Him Well
Dear World
My young son starts to school today . . . It’s going to be sort of strange and new to him for awhile, and I wish you would sort of treat him gently. You see, up to now he’s been king of the roost . . . He’s been boss of the backyard . . . His mother has always been near to soothe his wounds and repair his feelings.
But now things are going to be different.
This morning he’s going to walk down the front steps, wave his hand, and start out on the great adventure . . . It is and adventure that might take him across continents, across oceans . . . It’s an adventure that will probably include wars and tragedy and sorrow . . . To live his life in the world he will have to live in, will require faith and love and courage.
So, World, I wish you would sort of look after him . . . Take him by the hand and teach him things he will have to know.
But do it gently, if you can.
He will have to learn, I know, that all men are not just, that all men are not true. But teach him also that for every scoundrel there is a hero . . . that for every crooked politician there is a great and dedicated leader . . . Teach him that for every enemy, there is a friend.
Steer him away from envy, if you can . . . and teach him the secret of quiet laughter.
In school, World, teach him it is far more honorable to fail that to cheat . . . Teach him to have faith in his own idea, even if everyone says they are wrong . . . Teach him to be gentle with gentle people and tough with tough people.
Try to give my son the strength not to follow the crowd when everyone is getting on the bandwagon . . . Teach him to listen to all men--but teach him also to filter all he hears on a screen of truth and take just the good that siphons through.
Teach him, if you can, how to laugh when he’s sad . . . Teach him there is no shame in tears . . . Teach him there can be glory in failure and despair in success.
Treat him gently, World, if you can, but don’t coddle him . . . Because only the test of fire makes fine steel . . . Let him have the courage to be impatient . . . Let him have the patience to be brave.
Let him be no other man’s man . . . Teach him always to have sublime faith in himself.
Because then he will always have sublime faith in mankind.
This is quite and order, World, but see what you can do . . . He’s such a nice little fellow, my son!
by Dan Valentine: “American Essays: Sentimental Classics Designed to Make the Heart Sing” (1966)
Daniel Reed Valentine was born on 27 June 1917 in Saginaw, Michigan, United States of America. He was married to Helen Elaine Shaver. He became a newspaper columnist under the heading “Nothing Serious” for the “Salt Lake Telegram” and the “Salt Lake Tribune,” a radio personality, and a prolific writer of books and pamphlets. Daniel Reed Valentine passed on at 73 years of age on 12 February 1991 in Arlington, Virginia, United States of America.
Dear World
My young son starts to school today . . . It’s going to be sort of strange and new to him for awhile, and I wish you would sort of treat him gently. You see, up to now he’s been king of the roost . . . He’s been boss of the backyard . . . His mother has always been near to soothe his wounds and repair his feelings.
But now things are going to be different.
This morning he’s going to walk down the front steps, wave his hand, and start out on the great adventure . . . It is and adventure that might take him across continents, across oceans . . . It’s an adventure that will probably include wars and tragedy and sorrow . . . To live his life in the world he will have to live in, will require faith and love and courage.
So, World, I wish you would sort of look after him . . . Take him by the hand and teach him things he will have to know.
But do it gently, if you can.
He will have to learn, I know, that all men are not just, that all men are not true. But teach him also that for every scoundrel there is a hero . . . that for every crooked politician there is a great and dedicated leader . . . Teach him that for every enemy, there is a friend.
Steer him away from envy, if you can . . . and teach him the secret of quiet laughter.
In school, World, teach him it is far more honorable to fail that to cheat . . . Teach him to have faith in his own idea, even if everyone says they are wrong . . . Teach him to be gentle with gentle people and tough with tough people.
Try to give my son the strength not to follow the crowd when everyone is getting on the bandwagon . . . Teach him to listen to all men--but teach him also to filter all he hears on a screen of truth and take just the good that siphons through.
Teach him, if you can, how to laugh when he’s sad . . . Teach him there is no shame in tears . . . Teach him there can be glory in failure and despair in success.
Treat him gently, World, if you can, but don’t coddle him . . . Because only the test of fire makes fine steel . . . Let him have the courage to be impatient . . . Let him have the patience to be brave.
Let him be no other man’s man . . . Teach him always to have sublime faith in himself.
Because then he will always have sublime faith in mankind.
This is quite and order, World, but see what you can do . . . He’s such a nice little fellow, my son!
by Dan Valentine: “American Essays: Sentimental Classics Designed to Make the Heart Sing” (1966)
Daniel Reed Valentine was born on 27 June 1917 in Saginaw, Michigan, United States of America. He was married to Helen Elaine Shaver. He became a newspaper columnist under the heading “Nothing Serious” for the “Salt Lake Telegram” and the “Salt Lake Tribune,” a radio personality, and a prolific writer of books and pamphlets. Daniel Reed Valentine passed on at 73 years of age on 12 February 1991 in Arlington, Virginia, United States of America.
- Published on
I Trust You’ll Treat Her Well
Dear World,
I bequeath to you today one little girl . . . in a crispy dress . . . with two brown eyes . . . and a happy laugh that ripples all day long . . . and a flash of light brown hair that bounces in the sun when she runs. I trust you’ll treat her well.
She’s slipping out of the backyard of my heart this morning . . . and skipping off down the street to her first day of school. And never again will she be completely mine. Prim and proud she’ll wave her young and independent hand this morning and say “Goodbye” and walk with little lady steps to the schoolhouse.
Now she’ll learn to stand in lines . . . and wait by the alphabet for her name to be called. She’ll learn to tune her ears for the sounds of school-bells . . . and deadlines . . . and she’ll learn to giggle . . . and gossip . . . and look at the ceiling in a disinterested way when the little boy ‘cross the aisle sticks out his tongue at her. And now she’ll learn to be jealous. And now she’ll learn how it is to feel hurt inside. And now she’ll learn how not to cry.
No longer will she have time to sit on the front porch on a summer day and watch an ant scurry across the crack in the sidewalk. Nor will she have time to pop out of bed with the dawn and kiss lilac blooms in the morning dew. No, now she’ll worry about those important things . . . like grades and which dress to wear and whose best friends is whose. And the magic of books and learning will replace the magic of her blocks and dolls. And now she’ll find new heroes.
For five full years now I’ve been her sage and Santa Claus and pal and playmate and mother and friend. Now she’ll learn to share her worship with her teachers . . . which is only right. But no longer will I be the smartest woman in the whole world. Today when that school bell rings for the first time . . . she’ll learn what it means to be a member of the group . . . with all its privileges and its disadvantages too.
She’ll learn in time that proper young ladies do not laugh out loud . . . or kiss dogs . . . or keep frogs in pickle jars in bedrooms . . . or even watch ants scurry across cracks in sidewalks in the summer.
Today she’ll learn for the first time that all who smile at her are not her friends. And I’ll stand on the front porch and watch her start out on the long, lonely journey to becoming a woman.
So, world, I bequeath to you today one little girl . . . in a crispy dress . . . with two brown eyes . . . and a flash of light brown hair that bounces in the sunlight when she runs.
I trust you’ll treat her well.
by Dan Valentine: “American Essays: Sentimental Classics Designed to Make the Heart Sing” (1966)
Daniel Reed Valentine was born on 27 June 1917 in Saginaw, Michigan, United States of America. He was married to Helen Elaine Shaver. He became a newspaper columnist under the heading “Nothing Serious” for the “Salt Lake Telegram” and the “Salt Lake Tribune,” a radio personality, and a prolific writer of books and pamphlets. Daniel Reed Valentine passed on at 73 years of age on 12 February 1991 in Arlington, Virginia, United States of America.
Dear World,
I bequeath to you today one little girl . . . in a crispy dress . . . with two brown eyes . . . and a happy laugh that ripples all day long . . . and a flash of light brown hair that bounces in the sun when she runs. I trust you’ll treat her well.
She’s slipping out of the backyard of my heart this morning . . . and skipping off down the street to her first day of school. And never again will she be completely mine. Prim and proud she’ll wave her young and independent hand this morning and say “Goodbye” and walk with little lady steps to the schoolhouse.
Now she’ll learn to stand in lines . . . and wait by the alphabet for her name to be called. She’ll learn to tune her ears for the sounds of school-bells . . . and deadlines . . . and she’ll learn to giggle . . . and gossip . . . and look at the ceiling in a disinterested way when the little boy ‘cross the aisle sticks out his tongue at her. And now she’ll learn to be jealous. And now she’ll learn how it is to feel hurt inside. And now she’ll learn how not to cry.
No longer will she have time to sit on the front porch on a summer day and watch an ant scurry across the crack in the sidewalk. Nor will she have time to pop out of bed with the dawn and kiss lilac blooms in the morning dew. No, now she’ll worry about those important things . . . like grades and which dress to wear and whose best friends is whose. And the magic of books and learning will replace the magic of her blocks and dolls. And now she’ll find new heroes.
For five full years now I’ve been her sage and Santa Claus and pal and playmate and mother and friend. Now she’ll learn to share her worship with her teachers . . . which is only right. But no longer will I be the smartest woman in the whole world. Today when that school bell rings for the first time . . . she’ll learn what it means to be a member of the group . . . with all its privileges and its disadvantages too.
She’ll learn in time that proper young ladies do not laugh out loud . . . or kiss dogs . . . or keep frogs in pickle jars in bedrooms . . . or even watch ants scurry across cracks in sidewalks in the summer.
Today she’ll learn for the first time that all who smile at her are not her friends. And I’ll stand on the front porch and watch her start out on the long, lonely journey to becoming a woman.
So, world, I bequeath to you today one little girl . . . in a crispy dress . . . with two brown eyes . . . and a flash of light brown hair that bounces in the sunlight when she runs.
I trust you’ll treat her well.
by Dan Valentine: “American Essays: Sentimental Classics Designed to Make the Heart Sing” (1966)
Daniel Reed Valentine was born on 27 June 1917 in Saginaw, Michigan, United States of America. He was married to Helen Elaine Shaver. He became a newspaper columnist under the heading “Nothing Serious” for the “Salt Lake Telegram” and the “Salt Lake Tribune,” a radio personality, and a prolific writer of books and pamphlets. Daniel Reed Valentine passed on at 73 years of age on 12 February 1991 in Arlington, Virginia, United States of America.
- Published on
Children Learn What They Live
If children live with criticism, they learn to condemn.
If children live with hostility, they learn to fight.
If children live with fear, they learn to be apprehensive.
If children live with pity, they learn to feel sorry for themselves.
If children live with ridicule, they learn to feel shy.
If children live with jealousy, they learn to feel envy.
If children live with shame, they learn to feel guilty.
If children live with encouragement, they learn confidence.
If children live with tolerance, they learn patience.
If children live with praise, they learn appreciation.
If children live with acceptance, they learn to love.
If children live with approval, they learn to like themselves.
If children live with recognition, they learn it is good to have a goal.
If children live with sharing, they learn generosity.
If children live with honesty, they learn truthfulness.
If children live with fairness, they learn justice.
If children live with kindness and consideration, they learn respect.
If children live with security, they learn to have faith in themselves and in those about them.
If children live with friendliness, they learn the world is a nice place in which to live.
By Dorothy Law Nolte: “Children Learn What They Live: Parenting to Inspire Values” (1998), page vi
Shown above is one of several versions of the poem, “Children Learn What They Live,” known to exist, the work having been revised by its author more than once.
Dorothy Law Nolte was born as Dorothy Louise McDaniel on 12 January 1924 in Los Angeles, California, United States of America. She became a family counselor and a writer. Dorothy Law Nolte passed on at 81 years of age on 6 November 2005 in Rancho Santa Margarita, California, United States of America.
If children live with criticism, they learn to condemn.
If children live with hostility, they learn to fight.
If children live with fear, they learn to be apprehensive.
If children live with pity, they learn to feel sorry for themselves.
If children live with ridicule, they learn to feel shy.
If children live with jealousy, they learn to feel envy.
If children live with shame, they learn to feel guilty.
If children live with encouragement, they learn confidence.
If children live with tolerance, they learn patience.
If children live with praise, they learn appreciation.
If children live with acceptance, they learn to love.
If children live with approval, they learn to like themselves.
If children live with recognition, they learn it is good to have a goal.
If children live with sharing, they learn generosity.
If children live with honesty, they learn truthfulness.
If children live with fairness, they learn justice.
If children live with kindness and consideration, they learn respect.
If children live with security, they learn to have faith in themselves and in those about them.
If children live with friendliness, they learn the world is a nice place in which to live.
By Dorothy Law Nolte: “Children Learn What They Live: Parenting to Inspire Values” (1998), page vi
Shown above is one of several versions of the poem, “Children Learn What They Live,” known to exist, the work having been revised by its author more than once.
Dorothy Law Nolte was born as Dorothy Louise McDaniel on 12 January 1924 in Los Angeles, California, United States of America. She became a family counselor and a writer. Dorothy Law Nolte passed on at 81 years of age on 6 November 2005 in Rancho Santa Margarita, California, United States of America.
- Published on
Story Telling
Most every night when they’re in bed,
And both their little prayers have said,
They shout for me to come upstairs
And tell them tales of gypsies bold,
And eagles with the claws that hold
A baby’s weight, and fairy sprites
That roam the woods on starry nights.
And I must illustrate these tales,
Must imitate the northern gales
That toss the native man’s canoe,
And show the way he paddles, too.
If in the story comes a bear,
I have to pause and sniff the air
And show the way he climbs the trees
To steal the honey from the bees.
And then I buzz like angry bees
And sting him on his nose and knees
And howl in pain, till mother cries:
“That pair will never shut their eyes,
While all that noise up there you make;
You’re simply keeping them awake.”
And then they whisper: “Just one more,”
And once again I’m forced to roar.
New stories every night they ask.
And that is not an easy task;
I have to be so many things,
The frog that croaks, the lark that sings,
The cunning fox, the frightened hen;
But just last night they stumped me, when
They wanted me to twist and squirm
And imitate an angle worm.
At last they tumble off to sleep,
And softly from their room I creep
And brush and comb the shock of hair
I tossed about to be a bear.
Then mother says: “Well, I should say
You’re just as much a child as they.”
But you can bet I’ll not resign
That story telling job of mine.
by Edgar A. Guest
Edgar Albert ‘Eddie’ Guest was born on 20 August 1881 in Birmingham, England. He immigrated with his family to the United States of America in 1891. From his first published work in the “Detroit Free Press” until his passing in 1959, he penned some 11,000 poems that were syndicated in 300 newspapers and collected into more than twenty books. Mr. Guest is reputed to have had a new poem published in a newspaper every day for more than thirty years. He became known as ‘The People’s Poet,’ writing poems that were of a sentimental and optimistic nature. Edgar Albert ‘Eddie’ Guest passed on at 77 years of age on 5 August 1959 in Detroit, Michigan, United States of America.
Most every night when they’re in bed,
And both their little prayers have said,
They shout for me to come upstairs
And tell them tales of gypsies bold,
And eagles with the claws that hold
A baby’s weight, and fairy sprites
That roam the woods on starry nights.
And I must illustrate these tales,
Must imitate the northern gales
That toss the native man’s canoe,
And show the way he paddles, too.
If in the story comes a bear,
I have to pause and sniff the air
And show the way he climbs the trees
To steal the honey from the bees.
And then I buzz like angry bees
And sting him on his nose and knees
And howl in pain, till mother cries:
“That pair will never shut their eyes,
While all that noise up there you make;
You’re simply keeping them awake.”
And then they whisper: “Just one more,”
And once again I’m forced to roar.
New stories every night they ask.
And that is not an easy task;
I have to be so many things,
The frog that croaks, the lark that sings,
The cunning fox, the frightened hen;
But just last night they stumped me, when
They wanted me to twist and squirm
And imitate an angle worm.
At last they tumble off to sleep,
And softly from their room I creep
And brush and comb the shock of hair
I tossed about to be a bear.
Then mother says: “Well, I should say
You’re just as much a child as they.”
But you can bet I’ll not resign
That story telling job of mine.
by Edgar A. Guest
Edgar Albert ‘Eddie’ Guest was born on 20 August 1881 in Birmingham, England. He immigrated with his family to the United States of America in 1891. From his first published work in the “Detroit Free Press” until his passing in 1959, he penned some 11,000 poems that were syndicated in 300 newspapers and collected into more than twenty books. Mr. Guest is reputed to have had a new poem published in a newspaper every day for more than thirty years. He became known as ‘The People’s Poet,’ writing poems that were of a sentimental and optimistic nature. Edgar Albert ‘Eddie’ Guest passed on at 77 years of age on 5 August 1959 in Detroit, Michigan, United States of America.
