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 didn'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 isn'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.