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ROME AND FLOWERS 



I Didn't Think 



BY FRANK H. SWEET 



If all the troubles in the world 



Were traced back to the start, 

 We'd find not one in ten begun 



From want of Willing heart; 

 But there's a sly, woe-working elf 



Who lurks about life's brink. 

 And sure dismay he brings away— 



The elf, "I didn't think." 



He seems so sorry when he's caught. 

 His mien is all contrite; 



He so regrets the woe he wrought, 

 And wants to make things right 



But wishes do not heal a wound. 

 Nor weld a broken link; 



The heart aches on, the link is gone- 

 All through, "I didn't think/'' 



When brain is comrade to the heart- 



And heart from soul draws grace, 

 'i didn't think" will quick depart 



For lack of resting place. 

 If from that great unselfish stream, 



The Golden Rule, we drink, 

 We'll keep the laws, and have no cause 



To say "I didn't think." 



Let us look in our hearts and see 

 If the twilight bell of the angels 

 Could ring for you and me. 



— The Household, 



Just a Little Bit of Baby 



Just a little bit of baby, 



Twenty pounds and nothing more, — 

 See him floor his giant daddy 



Weight two hundred, six feet four. 



Just a little bit of baby; 



Any beauty? not a trace, — 

 See him stealing all the roses 



From his lovely mother's face 



Just a little bit of baby, 



Ignorant as he can be, — 

 See him puzzle all the sages 



Of his learned family. 



Just a little bit of baby, 



Walking? no; nor crawling, even,' 

 See him lead a dozen grown-ups 



To the very gate of heaven! 



- Amos R. Wells in Good Housekeeping, 



The Legend Bell 



There has come to my mind a legend, 



A thing 1 had half forgot, 

 And whether I read it or dreamed it, 



Ah, well, it matters not. 

 It is said that in heaven at twilight 



A great bell softly swings, 

 And man may listen and hearken 



To the wonderful music that rings. 

 If he puts from his heart's inner chamber 



All the passion, pain and strife. 

 Heartaches and weary longings 



That throb in the pulses of life; 

 If he thrusts from his soul all hatred, 



All thoughts of wicked things, 

 He can hear in the holy twilight 



How the bell of the angels rings. 

 And I think there is in this legend. 



If we open our eyes to see, 

 Somewhat of an inner meaning, 



My friend, to you and me; 

 Let us look in our hearts and question, 



"Can pure thoughts enter in 

 To a soul if it be already 



The dwelling of thoughts of sin?" 

 So, then, let us ponder a little; 



How Much Do You Love? 



One twilight was there when it seemed 

 New stars beneath young eyelids gleamed; 

 In vain the warning clock would creep 

 Anear the hour of beauty sleep; 

 In vain the trundle yearned to hold 

 Far-Eyes and little Heart-of-Gold; 

 And love that kisses are the stuff of 

 At last for once there was enough of. 

 As though of all affections round 

 The fond climacteric had been found- 

 Each childish fancy heaping more, 

 Like spendthrift from a miser store. 

 Till stopped by hug and stayed by kiss — 

 The sweet contention ran like this: 



' 'How much do 1 love you?' (I remember but part 

 Of the words of the troth of this love ) 



I love you,' he said — 'why — I love you a heart 

 Brimful and running ove*-. 



' 'I love you a hundred!' said he, with a squeeze. 



'A thousand!' said she, as she nestled; 

 A million!' he cried in triumphant ease, 



While she with the numbers wrestled. 



' 'Aha! I have found it!' she shouted, 'aha!' 



(The red to the soft cheeks mounting) 

 'I love you — I love you — 1 love you. Papa, 



Over the last of the counting!' " 



— Robert Underwood Johnson. 



