The Path to Home

by Edgar A. Guest

Snooping 'Round

Last night I caught him on his knees and looking underneath the bed,
And oh, the guilty look he wore, and oh, the stammered words he said,
When I, pretending to be cross, said: "Hey, young fellow, what's your game?"
As if, back in the long ago, I hadn't also played the same;
As if, upon my hands and knees, I hadn't many a time been found
When, thinking of the Christmas Day, I'd gone upstairs to snoop around.

But there he stood and hung his head; the rascal knew it wasn't fair.
"I jes' was wonderin'," he said, "jes' what it was that's under there.
It's somepin' all wrapped up an' I thought mebbe it might be a sled,
Becoz I saw a piece of wood 'at's stickin' out all painted red."
"If mother knew," I said to him, "you'd get a licking, I'll be bound,
But just clear out of here at once, and don't you ever snoop around."

And as he scampered down the stairs I stood and chuckled to myself,
As I remembered how I'd oft explored the topmost closet shelf.
It all came back again to me—with what a shrewd and cunning way
I, too, had often sought to solve the mysteries of Christmas Day.
How many times my daddy, too, had come upstairs without a sound
And caught me, just as I'd begun my clever scheme to snoop around.

And oh, I envied him his plight; I envied him the joy he feels
Who knows that every drawer that's locked some treasure dear to him conceals;
I envied him his Christmas fun and wished that it again were mine
To seek to solve the mysteries by paper wrapped and bound by twine.
Some day he'll come to understand that all the time I stood and frowned,
I saw a boy of years ago who also used to snoop around.

Bud Discusses Cleanliness

First thing in the morning, last I hear at night,
Get it when I come from school: "My, you look a sight!
Go upstairs this minute, an' roll your sleeves up high
An' give your hands a scrubbing and wipe 'em till they're dry!
Now don't stand there and argue, and never mind your tears!
And this time please remember to wash your neck and ears."

Can't see why ears grow on us, all crinkled like a shell,
With lots of fancy carvings that make a feller yell
Each time his Ma digs in them to get a speck of dirt,
When plain ones would be easy to wash and wouldn't hurt.
And I can't see the reason why every time Ma nears,
She thinks she's got to send me to wash my neck and ears.

I never wash to suit her; don't think I ever will.
If I was white as sister, she'd call me dirty still.
At night I get a scrubbing and go to bed, and then
The first thing in the morning, she makes me wash again.
That strikes me as ridiklus; I've thought of it a heap.
A feller can't get dirty when he is fast asleep.