Just Folks

          I know a wonderful land, I said,
            Where the skies are always blue,
          Where on chocolate drops are the children fed,
            And cocoanut cookies, too;
          Where puppy dogs romp at the children's feet,
            And the liveliest kittens play,
          And little tin soldiers guard the street
            To frighten the bears away.

          This land is reached by a wonderful ship
            That sails on a golden tide;
          But never a grown-up makes the trip—
            It is only a children's ride.
          And never a cross-patch journeys there,
            And never a pouting face,
          For it is the Land of Smiling, where
            A frown is a big disgrace.

          Oh, you board the ship when the sun goes down,
            And over a gentle sea
          You slip away from the noisy town
            To the land of the chocolate tree.
          And there, till the sun comes over the hill,
            You frolic and romp and play,
          And of candy and cake you eat your fill,
            With no one to tell you "Nay!"

          So come! It is time for the ship to go
            To this wonderful land so fair,
          And gently the summer breezes blow
            To carry you safely there.
          So come! Set sail on this golden sea,
            To the land that is free from dread!
          "I know what you mean," she said to me,
            "An' I don't wanna go to bed."

          It may be I am getting old and like too much to dwell
          Upon the days of bygone years, the days I loved so well;
          But thinking of them now I wish somehow that I could know
          A simple old Thanksgiving Day, like those of long ago,
          When all the family gathered round a table richly spread,
          With little Jamie at the foot and grandpa at the head,
          The youngest of us all to greet the oldest with a smile,
          With mother running in and out and laughing all the while.

          It may be I'm old-fashioned, but it seems to me to-day
          We're too much bent on having fun to take the time to pray;
          Each little family grows up with fashions of its own;
          It lives within a world itself and wants to be alone.
          It has its special pleasures, its circle, too, of friends;
          There are no get-together days; each one his journey wends,
          Pursuing what he likes the best in his particular way,
          Letting the others do the same upon Thanksgiving Day.

          I like the olden way the best, when relatives were glad
          To meet the way they used to do when I was but a lad;
          The old home was a rendezvous for all our kith and kin,
          And whether living far or near they all came trooping in
          With shouts of "Hello, daddy!" as they fairly stormed the place
          And made a rush for mother, who would stop to wipe her face
          Upon her gingham apron before she kissed them all,
          Hugging them proudly to her breast, the grownups and the small.

          Then laughter rang throughout the home, and, Oh, the jokes they told;
          From Boston, Frank brought new ones, but father sprang the old;
          All afternoon we chatted, telling what we hoped to do,
          The struggles we were making and the hardships we'd gone through;
          We gathered round the fireside. How fast the hours would fly—
          It seemed before we'd settled down 'twas time to say good-bye.
          Those were the glad Thanksgivings, the old-time families knew
          When relatives could still be friends and every heart was true.

          'Tis a little old house with a squeak in the stairs,
          And a porch that seems made for just two easy chairs;
          In the yard is a group of geraniums red,
          And a glorious old-fashioned peony bed.
          Petunias and pansies and larkspurs are there
          Proclaiming their love for the old-fashioned pair.

          Oh, it's hard now to picture the peace of the place!
          Never lovelier smile lit a fair woman's face
          Than the smile of the little old lady who sits
          On the porch through the bright days of summer and knits.
          And a courtlier manner no prince ever had
          Than the little old man that she speaks of as "dad."

          In that little old house there is nothing of hate;
          There are old-fashioned things by an old-fashioned grate;
          On the walls there are pictures of fine looking men
          And beautiful ladies to look at, and then
          Time has placed on the mantel to comfort them there
          The pictures of grandchildren, radiantly fair.

          Every part of the house seems to whisper of joy,
          Save the trinkets that speak of a lost little boy.
          Yet Time has long since soothed the hurt and the pain,
          And his glorious memories only remain:
          The laughter of children the old walls have known,
          And the joy of it stays, though the babies have flown.

          I am fond of that house and that old-fashioned pair
          And the glorious calm that is hovering there.
          The riches of life are not silver and gold
          But fine sons and daughters when we are grown old,
          And I pray when the years shall have silvered our hair
          We shall know the delights of that old-fashioned pair.

          We've been out to Pelletier's
          Brushing off the stain of years,
          Quitting all the moods of men
          And been boys and girls again.
          We have romped through orchards blazing,
          Petted ponies gently grazing,
          Hidden in the hayloft's spaces,
          And the queerest sort of places
          That are lost (and it's a pity!)
          To the youngsters in the city.
          And the hired men have let us
          Drive their teams, and stopped to get us
          Apples from the trees, and lingered
          While a cow's cool nose we fingered;
          And they told us all about her
          And her grandpa who was stouter.

          We've been out to Pelletier's
          Watching horses raise their ears,
          And their joyous whinnies hearing
          When the man with oats was nearing.
          We've been climbing trees an' fences
          Never minding consequences.
          And we helped the man to curry
          The fat ponies' sides so furry.
          And we saw a squirrel taking
          Walnuts to the nest he's making,
          Storing them for winter, when he
          Can't get out to hunt for any.
          And we watched the turkeys, growing
          Big and fat and never knowing
          That the reason they were living
          Is to die for our Thanksgiving.

          We've been out to Pelletier's,
          Brushing off the stain of years.
          We were kids set free from shamming
          And the city's awful cramming,
          And the clamor and the bustle
          And the fearful rush and hustle—
          Out of doors with room to race in
          And broad acres soft to chase in.
          We just stretched our souls and let them
          Drop the petty cares that fret them,
          Left our narrow thoughts behind us,
          Loosed the selfish traits that bind us
          And were wholesomer and plainer
          Simpler, kinder folks and saner,
          And at night said: "It's a pity
          Mortals ever built a city."

          A man is at his finest towards the finish of the year;
          He is almost what he should be when the Christmas season's here;
          Then he's thinking more of others than be's thought the months before,
          And the laughter of his children is a joy worth toiling for.
          He is less a selfish creature than at any other time;
          When the Christmas spirit rules him he comes close to the sublime.

          When it's Christmas man is bigger and is better in his part;
          He is keener for the service that is prompted by the heart.
          All the petty thoughts and narrow seem to vanish for awhile
          And the true reward he's seeking is the glory of a smile.
          Then for others he is toiling and somehow it seems to me
          That at Christmas he is almost what God wanted him to be.

          If I had to paint a picture of a man I think I'd wait
          Till he'd fought his selfish battles and had put aside his hate.
          I'd not catch him at his labors when his thoughts are all of pelf,
          On the long days and the dreary when he's striving for himself.
          I'd not take him when he's sneering, when he's scornful or depressed,
          But I'd look for him at Christmas when he's shining at his best.

          Man is ever in a struggle and he's oft misunderstood;
          There are days the worst that's in him is the master of the good,
          But at Christmas kindness rules him and he puts himself aside
          And his petty hates are vanquished and his heart is opened wide.
          Oh, I don't know how to say it, but somehow it seems to me
          That at Christmas man is almost what God sent him here to be.

          Little women, little men,
          Childhood never comes again.
          Live it gayly while you may;
          Give your baby souls to play;
            March to sound of stick and pan,
              In your paper hats, and tramp
            just as bravely as you can
              To your pleasant little camp.
          Wooden sword and wooden gun
          Make a battle splendid fun.
          Fine the victories you win
          Dimpled cheek and dimpled chin.

          Little women, little men,
          Hearts are light when years are ten;
          Eyes are bright and cheeks are red
          When life's cares lie all ahead.
            Drums make merry music when
              They are leading children out;
            Trumpet calls are cheerful then,
              Glorious is the battle shout.
          Little soldiers, single file,
          Uniformed in grin and smile,
          Conquer every foe they meet
          Up and down the gentle street.

          Little women, little men,
          Would that youth could come again!
          Would that I might fall in line
          As a little boy of nine,
            But with broomstick for a gun,
              And with paper hat that I
            Bravely wore back there for fun,
              Never more may I defy
          Foes that deep in ambush kneel—
          Now my warfare's grim and real.
          I that once was brave and bold,
          Now am battered, bruised and old.

          Little women, little men,
          Planning to attack my den,
          Little do you know the joy
          That you give a worn-out boy
            As he hears your gentle feet
              Pitter-patting in the hall;
            Gladly does he wait to meet
              Conquest by a troop so small.
          Dimpled cheek and dimpled chin,
          You have but to smile to win.
          Come and take him where he stays
          Dreaming of his by-gone days.

          "I work for someone else," he said;
          "I have no chance to get ahead.
          At night I leave the job behind;
          At morn I face the same old grind.
          And everything I do by day
          Just brings to me the same old pay.
          While I am here I cannot see
          The semblance of a chance for me."

          I asked another how he viewed
          The occupation he pursued.
          "It's dull and dreary toil," said he,
          "And brings but small reward to me.
          My boss gets all the profits fine
          That I believe are rightly mine.
          My life's monotonously grim
          Because I'm forced to work for him."

          I stopped a third young man to ask
          His attitude towards his task.
          A cheerful smile lit up his face;
          "I shan't be always in this place,"
          He said, "because some distant day
          A better job will come my way."
          "Your boss?" I asked, and answered he:
          "I'm going to make him notice me.

          "He pays me wages and in turn
          That money I am here to earn,
          But I don't work for him alone;
          Allegiance to myself I own.
          I do not do my best because
          It gets me favors or applause—
          I work for him, but I can see
          That actually I work for me.

          "It looks like business good to me
          The best clerk on the staff to be.
          If customers approve my style
          And like my manner and my smile
          I help the firm to get the pelf,
          But what is more I help myself.
          From one big thought I'm never free:
          That every day I work for me."

          Oh, youth, thought I, you're bound to climb
          The ladder of success in time.
          Too many self-impose the cross
          Of daily working for a boss,
          Forgetting that in failing him
          It is their own stars that they dim.
          And when real service they refuse
          They are the ones who really lose.

          I like to see the flowers grow,
          To see the pansies in a row;
          I think a well-kept garden's fine,
          And wish that such a one were mine;
          But one can't have a stock of flowers
          Unless he digs and digs for hours.

          My ground is always bleak and bare;
          The roses do not flourish there.
          And where I once sowed poppy seeds
          Is now a tangled mass of weeds.'
          I'm fond of flowers, but admit,
          For digging I don't care a bit.

          I envy men whose yards are gay,
          But never work as hard as they;
          I also envy men who own
          More wealth than I have ever known.
          I'm like a lot of men who yearn
          For joys that they refuse to earn.

          You cannot have the joys of work
          And take the comfort of a shirk.
          I find the man I envy most
          Is he who's longest at his post.
          I could have gold and roses, too,
          If I would work like those who do.

          If through the years we're not to do
            Much finer deeds than we have done;
          If we must merely wander through
            Time's garden, idling in the sun;
          If there is nothing big ahead,
          Why do we fear to join the dead?

          Unless to-morrow means that we
            Shall do some needed service here;
          That tasks are waiting you and me
            That will be lost, save we appear;
          Then why this dreadful thought of sorrow
          That we may never see to-morrow?

          If all our finest deeds are done,
            And all our splendor's in the past;
          If there's no battle to be won,
            What matter if to-day's our last?
          Is life so sweet that we would live
          Though nothing back to life we give?

          It is not greatness to have clung
            To life through eighty fruitless years;
          The man who dies in action, young,
            Deserves our praises and our cheers,
          Who ventures all for one great deed
          And gives his life to serve life's need.

          Don't mind being broke at all,
            When I can say that what I had
          Was spent for toys for kiddies small
            And that the spending made 'em glad.
          I don't regret the money gone,
            If happiness it left behind.
          An empty purse I'll look upon
            Contented, if its record's kind.
          There's no disgrace in being broke,
            Unless it's due to flying high;
          Though poverty is not a joke,
            The only thing that counts is "why?"

          The dollars come to me and go;
            To-day I've eight or ten to spend;
          To-morrow I'll be sailing low,
            And have to lean upon a friend.
          But if that little bunch of mine
            Is richer by some toy or frill,
          I'll face the world and never whine
            Because I lack a dollar bill.
          I'm satisfied, if I can see
            One smile that hadn't bloomed before.
          The only thing that counts with me
            Is what I've spent my money for.

          I might regret my sorry plight,
            If selfishness brought it about;
          If for the fun I had last night,
            Some joy they'd have to go without.
          But if I've swapped my bit of gold,
            For laughter and a happier pack
          Of youngsters in my little fold
            I'll never wish those dollars back.
          If I have traded coin for things
            They needed and have left them glad,
          Then being broke no sorrow brings—
            I've done my best with what I had.

          There is sorrow in the household;
          There's a grief too hard to bear;
          There's a little cheek that's tear-stained
          There's a sobbing baby there.
          And try how we will to comfort,
          Still the tiny teardrops come;
          For, to solve a vexing problem,
          Curly Locks has wrecked his drum.

          It had puzzled him and worried,
          How the drum created sound;
          For he couldn't understand it
          It was not enough to pound
          With his tiny hands and drumsticks,
          And at last the day has come,
          When another hope is shattered;
          Now in ruins lies his drum.

          With his metal bank he broke it,
          Tore the tightened skin aside,
          Gazed on vacant space bewildered,
          Then he broke right down and cried.
          For the broken bubble shocked him
          And the baby tears must come;
          Now a joy has gone forever:
          Curly Locks has wrecked his drum.

          While his mother tries to soothe him,
          I am sitting here alone;
          In the life that lies behind me;
          Many shocks like that I've known.
          And the boy who's upstairs weeping,
          In the years that are to come
          Will learn that many pleasures
          Are as empty as his drum.

          Mother for me made excuses
          When I was a little tad;
          Found some reason for my conduct
          When it had been very bad.
          Blamed it on a recent illness
          Or my nervousness and told
          Father to be easy with me
          Every time he had to scold.

          And I knew, as well as any
          Roguish, healthy lad of ten,
          Mother really wasn't telling
          Truthful things to father then.
          I knew I deserved the whipping,
          Knew that I'd been very bad,
          Knew that mother knew it also
          When she intervened with dad.

          I knew that my recent illness
          Hadn't anything to do
          With the mischief I'd been up to,
          And I knew that mother knew.
          But remembering my fever
          And my nervous temperament,
          Father put away the shingle
          And postponed the sad event.

          Now his mother, when I threaten
          Punishment for this and that,
          Calls to mind the dreary night hours
          When beside his bed we sat.
          Comes and tells me that he's nervous,
          That's the reason he was bad,
          And the boy and doting mother
          Put it over on the dad.

          Some day when he's grown as I am,
          With a boy on mischief bent,
          He will hear the timeworn story
          Of the nervous temperament.
          And remembering the shingle
          That aside I always threw,
          All I hope is that he'll let them
          Put it over on him, too.

          I might wish the world were better,
            I might sit around and sigh
          For a water that is wetter
            And a bluer sort of sky.
          There are times I think the weather
            Could be much improved upon,
          But when taken altogether
            It's a good old world we're on.
          I might tell how I would make it,
            But when I have had my say
          It is still my job to take it
            As it is, from day to day.

          I might wish that men were kinder,
            And less eager after gold;
          I might wish that they were blinder
            To the faults they now behold.
          And I'd try to make them gentle,
            And more tolerant in strife
          And a bit more sentimental
            O'er the finer things of life.
          But I am not here to make them,
            Or to work in human clay;
          It is just my work to take them
            As they are from day to day.

          Here's a world that suffers sorrow,
            Here are bitterness and pain,
          And the joy we plan to-morrow
            May be ruined by the rain.
          Here are hate and greed and badness,
            Here are love and friendship, too,
          But the most of it is gladness
            When at last we've run it through.
          Could we only understand it
            As we shall some distant day
          We should see that He who planned it
            Knew our needs along the way.

          Prettiest girl I've ever seen
                 Is Ma.
          Lovelier than any queen
                 Is Ma.
          Girls with curls go walking by,
          Dainty, graceful, bold an' shy,
          But the one that takes my eye
                 Is Ma.

          Every girl made into one
                 Is Ma.
          Sweetest girl to look upon
                 Is Ma.
          Seen 'em short and seen 'em tall,
          Seen 'em big and seen 'em small,
          But the finest one of all
                 Is Ma.

          Best of all the girls on earth
                 Is Ma.
          One that all the rest is worth
                 Is Ma.
          Some have beauty, some have grace,
          Some look nice in silk and lace,
          But the one that takes first place
                 Is Ma.

          Sweetest singer in the land
                 is Ma.
          She that has the softest hand
                 Is Ma.
          Tenderest, gentlest nurse is she,
          Full of fun as she can be,
          An' the only girl for me
                 Is Ma.

          Bet if there's an angel here
                 It's Ma.'
          if God has a sweetheart dear,
                 It's Ma.
          Take the girls that artists draw,
          An' all the girls I ever saw,
          The only one without a flaw
                 Is Ma.

          Up to the ceiling
          And down to the floor,
          Hear him now squealing
          And calling for more.
          Laughing and shouting,
          "Away up!" he cries.
          Who could be doubting
          The love in his eyes.
          Heigho! my baby!
          And heigho! my son!
          Up to the ceiling
          Is wonderful fun.

          Bigger than daddy
          And bigger than mother;
          Only a laddie,
          But bigger than brother.
          Laughing and crowing
          And squirming and wriggling,
          Cheeks fairly glowing,
          Now cooing and giggling!
          Down to the cellar,
          Then quick as a dart
          Up to the ceiling
          Brings joy to the heart.

          Gone is the hurry,
          The anguish and sting,
          The heartache and worry
          That business cares bring;
          Gone is the hustle,
          The clamor for gold,
          The rush and the bustle
          The day's affairs hold.
          Peace comes to the battered
          Old heart of his dad,
          When "up to the ceiling"
          He plays with his lad.

          Gettin' together to smile an' rejoice,
          An' eatin' an' laughin' with folks of your choice;
          An' kissin' the girls an' declarin' that they
          Are growin more beautiful day after day;
          Chattin' an' braggin' a bit with the men,
          Buildin' the old family circle again;
          Livin' the wholesome an' old-fashioned cheer,
          Just for awhile at the end of the year.

          Greetings fly fast as we crowd through the door
          And under the old roof we gather once more
          Just as we did when the youngsters were small;
          Mother's a little bit grayer, that's all.
          Father's a little bit older, but still
          Ready to romp an' to laugh with a will.
          Here we are back at the table again
          Tellin' our stories as women an men.

          Bowed are our heads for a moment in prayer;
          Oh, but we're grateful an' glad to be there.
          Home from the east land an' home from the west,
          Home with the folks that are dearest an' best.
          Out of the sham of the cities afar
          We've come for a time to be just what we are.
          Here we can talk of ourselves an' be frank,
          Forgettin' position an' station an' rank.

          Give me the end of the year an' its fun
          When most of the plannin' an' toilin' is done;
          Bring all the wanderers home to the nest,
          Let me sit down with the ones I love best,
          Hear the old voices still ringin' with song,
          See the old faces unblemished by wrong,
          See the old table with all of its chairs
          An I'll put soul in my Thanksgivin' prayers.

          Each evening on my lap there climbs
            A little boy of three,
          And with his dimpled, chubby fists
            He pounds me shamefully.
          He gives my beard a vicious tug,
            He bravely pulls my nose;
          And then he tussles with my hair
            And then explores my clothes.

          He throws my pencils on the floor
            My watch is his delight;
          He never seems to think that I
            Have any private right.
          And though he breaks my good cigars,
            With all his cunning art,
          He works a greater ruin, far,
            Deep down within my heart.

          This roguish little tyke who sits
            Each night upon my knee,
          And hammers at his poor old dad,
            Is bound to conquer me.
          He little knows that long ago,
            He forced the gates apart,
          And marched triumphantly into
            The city of my heart.

          Some day perhaps, in years to come,
            When he is older grown,
          He, too, will be assailed as I,
            By youngsters of his own.
          And when at last a little lad
            Gives battle on his knee,
          I know that he'll be captured, too,
            Just as he captured me.

          My land is where the kind folks are,
            And where the friends are true,
          Where comrades brave will travel far
            Some kindly deed to do.
          My land is where the smiles are bright
            And where the speech is sweet,
          And where men cling to what is right
            Regardless of defeat.

          My land is where the starry flag
            Gleams brightly in the sun;
          The land of rugged mountain crag,
            The land where rivers run,
          Where cheeks are tanned and hearts are bold
            And women fair to see,
          And all is not a strife for gold—
            That land is home to me.

          My land is where the children play,
            And where the roses bloom,
          And where to break the peaceful day
            No flaming cannons boom.
          My land's the land of honest toil,
            Of laughter, dance and song,
          Where harvests crown the fertile soil
            And thoughtful are the strong.

          My land's the land of many creeds
            And tolerance for all
          It is the land of 'splendid deeds
            Where men are seldom small.
          And though the world should bid me roam,
            Its distant scenes to see,
          My land would keep my heart at home
            And there I'd always be.

          I would rather be the daddy
            Of a romping, roguish crew,
          Of a bright-eyed chubby laddie
            And a little girl or two,
          Than the monarch of a nation
            In his high and lofty seat
          Taking empty adoration
            From the subjects at his feet.

          I would rather own their kisses
            As at night to me they run,
          Than to be the king who misses
            All the simpler forms of fun.
          When his dreary day is ending
            He is dismally alone,
          But when my sun is descending
            There are joys for me to own.

          He may ride to horns and drumming;
            I must walk a quiet street,
          But when once they see me coming
            Then on joyous, flying feet
          They come racing to me madly
            And I catch them with a swing
          And I say it proudly, gladly,
            That I'm happier than a king.

          You may talk of lofty places,
            You may boast of pomp and power,
          Men may turn their eager faces
            To the glory of an hour,
          But give me the humble station
            With its joys that long survive,
          For the daddies of the nation
            Are the happiest men alive.

          Under the shade of trees,
          Flat on my back at ease,
          Lulled by the hum of bees,
            There's where I rest;
          Breathing the scented air,
          Lazily loafing there,
          Never a thought of care,
            Peace in my breast.

          There where the waters run,
          Laughing along in fun,
          I go when work is done,
            There's where I stray;
          Couch of a downy green,
          Restful and sweet and clean,
          Set in a fairy scene,
            Wondrously gay.

          Worn out with toil and strife,
          Sick of the din of life,
          With pain and sorrow rife,
            There's where I go;
          Soothing and sweet I find,
          Comforts that ease the mind,
          Leaving dull care behind,
            Rest there I know.

          Flat on my back I lie,
          Watching the ships go by,
          Under the fleecy sky,
            Day dreaming there;
          From grief I find surcease,
          From worry gain release,
          Resting in perfect peace,
            Free from all care.

          The smell of arnica is strong,
            And mother's time is spent
          In rubbing father's arms and back
            With burning liniment.
          The house is like a druggist's shop;
            Strong odors fill the hall,
          And day and night we hear him groan,
            Since father played baseball.

          He's forty past, but he declared
            That he was young as ever;
          And in his youth, he said, he was
            A baseball player clever.
          So when the business men arranged
            A game, they came to call
          On dad and asked him if he thought
            That he could play baseball.

          "I haven't played in fifteen years,"
            Said father, "but I know
          That I can stop the grounders hot,
            And I can make the throw.
          I used to play a corking game;
            The curves, I know them all;
          And you can count on me, you bet,
            To join your game of ball."

          On Saturday the game was played,
            And all of us were there;
          Dad borrowed an old uniform,
            That Casey used to wear.
          He paid three dollars for a glove,
            Wore spikes to save a fall
          He had the make-up on all right,
            When father played baseball.

          At second base they stationed him;
            A liner came his way;
          Dad tried to stop it with his knee,
            And missed a double play.
          He threw into the bleachers twice,
            He let a pop fly fall;
          Oh, we were all ashamed of him,
            When father played baseball.

          He tried to run, but tripped and fell,
            He tried to take a throw;
          It put three fingers out of joint,
            And father let it go.
          He stopped a grounder with his face;
            Was spiked, nor was that all;
          It looked to us like suicide,
            When father played baseball.

          At last he limped away, and now
            He suffers in disgrace;
          His arms are bathed in liniment;
            Court plaster hides his face.
          He says his back is breaking, and
            His legs won't move at all;
          It made a wreck of father when
            He tried to play baseball.

          The smell of arnica abounds;
            He hobbles with a cane;
          A row of blisters mar his hands;
            He is in constant pain.
          But lame and weak as father is,
            He swears he'll lick us all
          If we dare even speak about
            The day he played baseball.