GUESTS

In all the homes of my brothers and sisters

Is a sampler Mama embroidered for each family.

Actually, I embroidered most, if not all, of my own

while I was in the hospital when Eddy was born.

Because of complications, we spent a week.

I always thought Edgar A. Guest wrote it.

Maybe because it starts with “Guest” or maybe it’s true.

On the Internet, some say “unknown”;

Some say “J. P. McEvoy”; and some say

Edgar A. Guest.

I’m sticking with Mama.

One of our most cherished books was

“Heap O’ Livin’”.

Mama quoted Edgar A. Guest almost as much as she

quoted scripture and proverbs when we were growing up.

It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it
     home,
  A heap o' sun an' shadder, an' ye sometimes
     have t' roam
  Afore ye really 'preciate the things ye lef'
     behind,
  An' hunger fer 'em somehow, with 'em allus
     on yer mind.
  It don't make any differunce how rich ye get
     t' be,
  How much yer chairs an' tables cost, how great
     yer luxury;
  It ain't home t' ye, though it be the palace of a
     king,
  Until somehow yer soul is sort o' wrapped round
     everything.

  Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up
     in a minute;
  Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin'
     in it;
  Within the walls there's got t' be some babies
     born, and then
  Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women
     good, an' men;
  And gradjerly as time goes on, ye find ye
     wouldn't part
  With anything they ever used--they've grown
     into yer heart:
  The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the
     little shoes they wore
  Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the
     thumb-marks on the door.

  Ye've got t' weep t' make it home, ye've got t'
     sit an' sigh
  An' watch beside a loved one's bed, an' know
     that Death is nigh;
  An' in the stillness o' the night t' see Death's
     angel come,
  An' close the eyes o' her that smiled, an' leave
     her sweet voice dumb.
  Fer these are scenes that grip the heart, an'
     when yer tears are dried,
  Ye find the home is dearer than it was, an'
     sanctified;
  An' tuggin' at ye always are the pleasant
     memories
  O' her that was an' is no more--ye can't escape
     from these.

  Ye've got t' sing an' dance fer years, ye've got
     t' romp an' play,
  An' learn t' love the things ye have by usin' 'em
     each day;
  Even the roses 'round the porch must blossom
     year by year
  Afore they 'come a part o' ye, suggestin'
     someone dear
  Who used t' love 'em long ago, an' trained 'em
     jes t' run
  The way they do, so's they would get the early
     mornin' sun;
  Ye've got t' love each brick an' stone from
     cellar up t' dome:
  It takes a heap o' livin' in a house t' make it
     home.

''Just start to sing as you tackle the thing.”  Edgar A. Guest

Mama did that too.

We were reared on Church hymn doctrine.

If we didn’t want to tend the baby,

  She would gently begin to sing:

   If we knew the baby fingers
   Pressed against the window pane,
   Would be cold and stiff tomorrow—
   Never trouble us again—
   Would the bright eyes of our darling
   Catch the frown upon our brow?
   Would the prints of rosy fingers
   Vex us then as they do now?

That is from

   SCATTER SEEDS OF KINDNESS

   The other verses are a sermon too.

   Let us gather up the sunbeams,
   Lying all around our path;
   Let us keep the wheat and roses,
   Casting out the thorns and chaff;
   Let us find our sweetest comfort
   In the blessings of today,
   With a patient hand removing
   All the briers from the way.

Refrain

  Then scatter seeds of kindness,
   Then scatter seeds of kindness,
   Then scatter seeds of kindness,
   For our reaping by and by.

   Strange we never prize the music
   Till the sweet-voiced bird is flown!
   Strange that we should slight the violets
   Till the lovely flowers are gone!
   Strange that summer skies and sunshine
   Never seem one half so fair,
   As when winter’s snowy pinions
   Shake the white down in the air.

Refrain

   Ah! those little ice-cold fingers,
   How they point our memories back
   To the hasty words and actions
   Strewn along our backward track!
   How those little hands remind us,
   As in snowy grace they lie,
   Not to scatter thorns—but roses—
   For our reaping by and by.

Refrain

Words by May R. Smith; Music by Silas J. Vail

Whenever we quarreled or had a tiff with a friend,

Our rebuke was in song:

   Angry words! O let them never,
   From the tongue unbridled slip,
   May the heart's best impulse ever,
   Check them ere they soil the lip.

Refrain

   Love one another thus saith the Savior,
   Children obey the Father's blest command,
   Love each other, love each other,
   'Tis the Father's blest command.

   Love is much too pure and holy,
   Friendship is too sacred far,
   For a moment's reckless folly,
   Thus to desolate and mar.

Refrain

   Angry words are lightly spoken,
   Bitterest thoughts are rashly stirred,
   Brightest links of life are broken,
   By a single angry word.

Refrain

The most repeated proverb was expounded

Every time we made a bed, swept a floor,

Or hastened in any task so we could slip outside.

  Our version was slightly different.  We said:

  All that you do,

  Do with your might;

  Things done by half,

  Are never done right.

All that you do, do with all of your might for things done by halves are never done right.

Back to Edgar A. Guest and Mama;

When I hear nothing from some of my sisters

after we spent a few days in our SunRiver home

for our annual Sisters’ Retreat;

I think a couple of them took to heart:

   “You don’t have to thank me,

   Or laugh at my jokes.

   Sit deep and come often.

   You’re one of the folks.”

Mama believed that;

She welcomed everyone into her home;

As did her mother before her.

And I need to too.

  Grow up, Jeanette