Pleasing Dad

When I was but a little lad, not more than two or three,

I noticed in a general way my dad was proud of me.

He liked the little ways I had, the simple things I said;

Sometimes he gave me words of praise, sometimes he stroked my head;

And when I'd done a thing worth while, the thought that made me glad

Was always that I'd done my best, and that would please my dad.

I can look back to-day and see how proud he used to be

When I'd come home from school and say they'd recommended me.

I did n't understand it then, for school boys never do,

But in a vague and general way it seems to me I knew

That father took great pride in me, and wanted me to shine,

And that it meant a lot to him when I'd done something fine.

Then one day out of school I went, amid the great world's hum,

An office boy, and father watched each night to see me come.

And I recall how proud he was of me that wondrous day

When I could tell him that, unasked, the firm had raised my pay.

I still can feel that hug he gave, I understand the joy

It meant to him to learn that men were trusting in his boy.

I wonder will it please my dad? How oft the thought occurs

When I am stumbling on the paths, beset with briars and burrs!

He is n't here to see me now, alone my race I run,

And yet some day I'll go to him and tell him all I've done.

And oh I pray that when we meet beyond life's stormy sea

That he may claim the old-time joy of being proud of me.