SECOND CHILDHOOD

The skilled artisan plys his trade
When making gifts for girls and boys,
The teddy bears and sleeping dolls,
The jumping jack and tinker toys;
And visions of a happy face
He sees when fitting things in place.

At work he often visualize
The noise and clatter Christmas morn,
The scampering feet and whoops of joy,
With din of drums and tooting horn;
With the completion of each toy
He feels a thrill of childlike joy.

Electric trains and spinning tops
Brings joy to many a little lad,
But first he has to wait until
It has been proven by his Dad;
Sprawled on the floor he has real fun
In showing Junior how it's run.

We grown up folks sometimes gives way
To pent-up feeling we retain,
And thinking of our childhood days,
We wish we were a child again
When looking back to days gone by
When we had just some simple toy.

December, 1947

RECOLLECTIONS

I always have remembered, tho' it's many years ago
When I would kneel these simple words to pray,
As my Mother morn and evening would recite each
Little prayer,
And I'd try to repeat every word she'd say.

"Now I lay be down to sleep", it was just an evening prayer,
Said in simple language children understand;
And methinks the prayers our mothers taught us
Often helps us through,
When we at times do need a guiding hand.

"Make me good Dear Lord I pray,
Keep and guide me through this day",
Just a daily repetition, nothing new,
Yet it is a recollection, little words I
Ne'er forgot,
Said each morning and quite often hurried through.

Where ever I have wandered, on the land, or o'er the sea
Some childhood scenes have followed all the way;
And the memories I cherish most was by my
Mother's knee,
As she first taught me these little prayers to say.

SPRING IS HERE

Songbirds from the south are winging,
Children's skipping ropes are swinging,
Gurgling brooks are merrily singing,
Spring is everywhere;
O'er the mill-dam water's flowing,
Hark, the farmland cattle's lowing,
And the night winds softly blowing
Whispers "Spring is here".

Cease my soul thy sad repining,
See how bright the sun is shining,
It's no time for peevish whining,
Vernal Spring is here;
Banish all misgivings, doubtings,
See the tiny buds are sprouting,
Soon there'll be the annual outings
To the country fair.

Spring means life and resurrection,
Spring means flowers in true perfection,
Bursting out in each direction;
Fragrant is the air;
Springtime brings us consolation,
Spreading beauty through the nation,
May we each in our vocation
Its full beauties share.

Spring, 1950

THE POPCORN VENDER

The popcorn vender is a man
Who needs no special art,
But two strong arms and sturdy legs
He needs to push his cart.

He trudges 'long his daily route
With slow determined pace,
And now and then he halts to wipe
His hot perspiring face.

The children playing near their homes
Observes him on the street,
And with a coin clasped in their hand,
They scampers for their treat.

He serves each one a bag of corn
So crispy, moist and sweet,
And with a smile for every child,
He proceeds along his beat.

The children are his customers,
He never robs or cheats,
At every block the youngsters flock
The popcorn man to greet.

And when the sun has sank to rest,
He homeward wends his way,
And there he rests his aching feet
Until another day.

WHAT WOULD YOU TAKE?

What would you take for that round curly head,
And ringlets all dangling with pink ribbons tied;
For that bright little face with a smile all lit up,
Or her two sparkling eyes when they open so wide,
What would you take?

What would you take for that little round mouth
When it pouts in displeasure or yell with delight;
As she chatters all day in her own simple way,
Or puckers her lips for a kiss at good night.
What would you take?

What would you take for her fingers so small
As you spy little marks on your paintwork so fair,
Or a dish when it falls to the floor with a crash,
Ad she looks in your eyes with a look of despair.
What would you take?

What would yo take as each day she grows up,
And toddles around on her two little feet;
When she listens at night-fall a footstep to hear
Then runs to the doorway her Daddy to greet,
What would you take?

What would yo take for her when day is done,
And she lies fast asleep in her own little cot,
As you think of her mischief, her chatter and fun,
Then whispers a prayer for your dear little tot;
Say, what would you take?

December, 1943

JUNIOR'S TROUBLES

Arriving home at eventide,
And feeling quite alright,
My Mom she looks me up and down
And says "Oh you're a fright".

"Where have you been? Go wash yourself,
And hurry on upstairs;
Roll up your sleeves, use lots of soap,
And wash behind your ears".

And so I try to wash my face
And hands to look my best,
But after I have wiped them both
The towel looks a mess.

When I am at the bathing beach
Warm days in summer time,
I wade and splash, and swim and dive,
The water feels just fine.

But when I try to wash at home
It never feels the same,
And if I am not nice and clean
My Mom says I'm to blame.

Now I can do all kinds of stunts,
And exercise by 'heck';
But when I wash I finds it hard
To reach behind my neck.

And I can swing a baseball bat,
Or throw a ball so high,
But when there's chore to do at home
I don't feel half as spry.

GROWING UP

How pleasant are the sound of little feet
When Junior first begins to toddle 'round,
With faltering steps he ventures forth alone,
And not a prouder baby can be found.

His Dad returning home when day is done
Sits up the little toddler on his knee,
Ad listens as his prattle seems to say,
"I'm growing up, and soon a man will be."

It's not so long until the mother spies
Some little finger marks upon the door,
And topsy-turvy is the house at times
With playthings strewn around upon the floor.

Sometimes he has a fall and bumps his head,
He yells aloud and seems in awful pain,
Then Mom she quickly runs and picks him up,
And kiss' the spot, and soon it's well again.

He's growing up, and his first day at school
He tells his parents all the fun he had,
Then Dad says he is smart, and getting big,
But Mom says he is just a tiny lad.

He has grown up, and starting out one day
For his first job at office, store or mill,
His father calls him his big grown up son,
But mother thinks of him as baby still.

MEMORIES

If time would turn back for a season,
For a year in the past that are gone,
I would romp once again in my boyhood,
And the days would speed merrily along.

When the catkins are blowing in springtime,
And the robin comes bobbin' along,
As the song sparrow sings in the tree top
With nothing to mar it's sweet song.

I'd hear once again the waves murmur,
And sniff the salt tang of the sea,
I'd watch the white sails in the sunset
And the sea gulls so graceful and free.

There would be the cool breezes at even,
I would hear the loon's cry in the night,
As it calls to it's mate o'er the water
Lit up by the moon's silvery light.

I'd wade once again in sea water,
And dig my bare toes in the sand,
And hunt the nest of the sand piper,
Where I'd gather sea shells in the strand.

These days they are gone past forever,
But a mem'rie they ever will be,
There a youngster with never a worry,
Once dwelt by the side of the sea.

THE SLEEPING DOLL

A little girl sat deep in thought,
Paper and pencil in each hand;
At last in serious mood she wrote,
"Dear Santa Claus" her note began.

"I'm writing you to say that if
You haven't dolls enough to share
With every little girl, then please
Don't bring a doll to me this year."

"Just down our street ten doors away
Where the big elm tree grows so tall,
There is a little orphan girl
Who haven't any doll at all."

"So if you please dear Santa Claus,
Bring her a doll, one that will cry,
And go to sleep when lying down,
When on our street you're passing by."

And when her father read the note
Scrawled by a little hand so small,
Said he, "I'll tell old Santa Claus
To bring that little girl a doll."

And in that house on Christmas morn
Where the big elm tree grows so tall,
A little girl was thrilled with joy,
Because she owned a sleeping doll.

Christmas, 1944

GUY FAWKE'S DAY - November 5th

I always loved his time of year
When I was just a lad,
When Guy awke's day would rol around
What fun we youngsters had.

Guy Fawkes was no concern of ours,
Or the plot he did conspire,
But this we knew, November fifth
Was the night for our bonfire.

Right after school each day we'd work
With ardour you'd admire,
We'd chop small spruce and balsam fir,
And pile them higher and higher.

And when at last the evening came
With weather fair and dry,
Both boys and girls would gather 'round
To watch the sparks fly high.

That ight on many a knoll and hill
In really grand display,
Bonfires would flare and youngsters cheer
That's how we kept Fawke's day.

November, 1948

TO HELEN

Dear Sister - here's a little poem
I dedicate to you,
And may it find you in the pink
And not be feeling blue.
I hope your family all are well
And hubby feeling fine,
And when sometime you think of me
I hope you drop a line.

I never shall forget the past
When we were young and free,
I still can hear your laugh and shout
You were so full of glee.
And when I played a trick on you
Or teased your cat, then run,
Oh you were a good natured kid
You took it all in fun.

So many years has passed since then
And changes there has been,
And we are living far apart
With many miles between.
But maybe at some future date
If what you say is true,
A year or two, and then perhaps
I will be seeing you.

Photo: Helen (Frampton) Stone, sister of George Frampton

MOTHER'S CAKE

When we see our Mom get ready,
And she says she's going to bake;
Then we know just by her actions
She is going to bake a cake.

First she gets the flour ready,
And whatever else it takes;
Then she sings a little ditty
While she's mixing up her cake.

Then she mixes all together,
Stirs until her arms do ache;
And we all keep off a distance
While Mom's mixing up her cake.

Then she sets it in the oven,
When it is prepared to bake;
Soon we sniff the rich aroma
Coming from her flavoured cake.

Then when it is baked and ready,
From the oven she will take;
And we all have such a longing
For a piece of Mother's cake.

When it is cooled off so nicely,
Then the icing she will make,
And she lays it on so even
All around her dainty cake.

When she sets the dinner table,
And we all our places take;
We are sure to leave an opening
For a piece of Mother's cake.

When she serves us all a helping,
We are very much awake;
And it pays her for her labour,
When we praise her tempting cake.

You may talk about your tid bits
That gives you the 'tummy' ache;
But there's nothing half as tasty
As a piece of Mother's cake.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

I know a winsom little girl
Just two years old; not three,
She has the cutest little curl,
Her name is Valerie.

Her birthday comes this time each year,
When signs of spring we see,
It give good cheer when spring is near,
And also Valerie.

As early dew drops in the sun,
Or on a budding tree,
Her eyes they sparkle in her fun
Vivacious Valerie.

She trots around the house at play
As busy as a bee,
And chatters all the livelong day,
The toddler Valerie.

She has a smile for young and old
Including you and me,
I doubt if all her weight in gold
Would buy Miss Valerie.

May she grow up to womanhood,
From every snare kept free,
And like her parents always good,
Young winsome Valerie

March 23, 1949
(Valerie's Birthday)