Just Folks

          Show me the boy who never threw
            A stone at someone's cat;
          Or never hurled a snowball swift
            At someone's high silk hat.
          Who never ran away from school,
            To seek the swimming hole;
          Or slyly from a neighbor's yard
            Green apples never stole.
          Show me the boy who never broke
            A pane of window glass;
          Who never disobeyed the sign
            That says: "Keep off the grass."
          Who never did a thousand things,
            That grieve us sore to tell;
          And I'll show you a little boy
            Who must be far from well.

          Curly locks, what do you know of the world,
            And what do your brown eyes see?
          Has your baby mind been able to find
            One thread of the mystery?
          Do you know of the sorrow and pain that lie
            In the realms that you've never seen?
          Have you even guessed of the great unrest
            In the world where you've never been?

          Curly locks, what do you know of the world
            And what do you see in the skies?
          When you solemnly stare at the world out there
            Can you see where the future lies?
          What wonderful thoughts are you thinking now?
            Can it be that you really know
          That beyond your youth there are joy and ruth,
            On the way that you soon must go?

          The telephone rang in my office to-day,
              as it often has tinkled before.
          I turned in my chair in a half-grouchy way,
              for a telephone call is a bore;
          And I thought, "It is somebody wanting to know
              the distance from here to Pekin."
          In a tone that was gruff I shouted "Hello,"
              a sign for the talk to begin.
          "What is it?" I asked in a terrible way.
              I was huffy, to tell you the truth,
          Then over the wire I heard my wife say:
              "The baby, my dear, has a tooth!"

          I have seen a man jump when the horse that he
              backed finished first in a well-driven race.
          I have heard the man cheer, as a matter of fact,
              and I've seen the blood rush to his face;
          I've been on the spot when good news has come
              in and I've witnessed expressions of glee
          That range from a yell to a tilt of the chin; and
              some things have happened to me
          That have thrilled me with joy from my toes to
              my head, but never from earliest youth
          Have I jumped with delight as I did when she
              said, "The baby, my dear, has a tooth."

          I have answered the telephone thousands of times
              for messages both good and bad;
          I've received the reports of most horrible crimes,
              and news that was cheerful or sad;
          I've been telephoned this and been telephoned
              that, a joke, or an errand to run;
          I've been called to the phone for the idlest of chat,
              when there was much work to be done;
          But never before have I realized quite the thrill
              of a message, forsooth,
          Till over the wire came these words that I write,
              "The baby, my dear, has a tooth."

          Home was never home before,
            Till the baby came.
          Love no golden jewels wore,
            Till the baby came.
          There was joy, but now it seems
          Dreams were not the rosy dreams,
          Sunbeams not such golden beams—
            Till the baby came.

          Home was never really gay,
            Till the baby came.
          I'd forgotten how to play,
            Till the baby came.
          Smiles were never half so bright,
          Troubles never half so light,
          Worry never took to flight,
            Till the baby came.

          Home was never half so blest,
            Till the baby came.
          Lacking something that was best,
            Till the baby came.
          Kisses were not half so sweet,
          Love not really so complete,
          Joy had never found our street
            Till the baby came.

          Along a stream that raced and ran
            Through tangled trees and over stones,
          That long had heard the pipes o' Pan
            And shared the joys that nature owns,
          I met a fellow fisherman,
            Who greeted me in cheerful tones.

          The lines of care were on his face.
            I guessed that he had buried dead;
          Had run for gold full many a race,
            And kept great problems in his head,
          But in that gentle resting place
            No word of wealth or fame he said.

          He showed me trout that he had caught
            And praised the larger ones of mine;
          Told me how that big beauty fought
            And almost broke his silken line;
          Spoke of the trees and sky, and thought
            Them proof of life and power divine.

          There man to man we talked of trees
            And birds, as people talk of men;
          Discussed the busy ways of bees
            Wondered what lies beyond our ken;
          Where is the land no mortal sees,
            And shall we come this way again.

          "Out here," he told me, with a smile,
            "Away from all the city's sham,
          The strife for splendor and for style,
            The ticker and the telegram
          I come for just a little while
            To be exactly as I am."

          Foes think the bad in him they've guessed
            And prate about the wrong they scan;
          Friends that have seen him at his best
            Believe they know his every plan;
          I know him better than the rest,
            I know him as a fisherman.

          Over the hills of time to the valley of endless years;
          Over the roads of woe to the land that is free from tears
          Up from the haunts of men to the place where the angels are,
          This is the march of mortality to a wonderful goal afar.

          Troopers we are in life, warring at times with wrong,
          But promised ever unbroken rest at last in a land of song;
          And whether we serve or rule, and whether we fall or rise,
          We shall come, in time, to that golden vale where never the spirit dies.

          Back of the strife for gain, and under the toil for fame,
          The dreams of men in this mortal march have ever remained the same.
          They have lived through their days and years for the great rewards to be,
          When earth's dusty garb shall be laid aside for the robes of eternity.

          This is the march of mortality, whatever man's race or creed,
          And whether he's one of the savage tribe or one of a higher breed,
          He is conscious dimly of better things that were promised him long ago,
          And he keeps his place in the line with men for
              the joys that his soul shall know.

          Time was I thought of growing up,
            But that was ere the babies came;
          I'd dream and plan to be a man
            And win my share of wealth and fame,
          For age held all the splendors then
            And wisdom seemed lifes brightest crown
          For mortal brow. It's different now.
            Each evening finds me growing down.

          I'm not so keen for growing up
            To wrinkled cheek and heavy tongue,
          And sluggish blood; with little Bud
            I long to be a comrade young.
          His sports are joys I want to share,
            His games are games I want to play,
          An old man grim's no chum for him
            And so I'm growing down to-day.

          I'm back to marbles and to tops,
            To flying kites and one-ol'-cat;
          "Fan acres!" I now loudly cry;
            I also take my turn at bat;
          I've had my fling at growing up
            And want no old man's fair renown.
          To be a boy is finer joy,
            And so I've started growing down.

          Once more I'm learning games I knew
            When I was four and five and six,
          I'm going back along life's track
            To find the same old-fashioned tricks,
          And happy are the hours we spend
            Together, without sigh or frown.
          To be a boy is Age's joy,
            And so to him I'm growing down.

          The roads of happiness are not
              The selfish roads of pleasure seeking,
            Where cheeks are flushed with haste and hot
              And none has time for kindly speaking.
            But they're the roads where lovers stray,
              Where wives and husbands walk together
            And children romp along the way
              Whenever it is pleasant weather.

            The roads of happiness are trod
              By simple folks and tender-hearted,
            By gentle folks that worship God
              And want to live their days unparted.
            There kindly people stop and talk,
              Regardless of the chase for money,
            There, arm in arm, the grown-ups walk
              And every eye you see is sunny.

            The roads of happiness are lined,
              Not with the friends of royal splendor,
            But with the loyal friends and kind
              That do the gentle deeds and tender.
            There fame has never brought unrest
              Nor glory set men's hearts to aching;
            There unabandoned is life's best
              For selfish love and money making.

            The roads of happiness are those
              That do not lead to pomp and glory
            But wind among the joys and woes
              That make the humble toiler's story.
            The roads that oft we used to tread
              In early days when first we mated,
            When hearts were light and cheeks were red,
              And days were not with burdens freighted.

          June is here, the month of roses, month of brides and month of bees,
          Weaving garlands for our lassies, whispering love songs in the trees,
          Painting scenes of gorgeous splendor, canvases no man could brush,
          Changing scenes from early morning till the sunset's crimson flush.

          June is here, the month of blossoms, month of roses white and red,
          Wet with dew and perfume-laden, nodding wheresoe'er we tread;
          Come the bees to gather honey, all the lazy afternoon;
          Flowers and lassies, men and meadows, love alike the month of June.

          Month of love and month of sunshine, month of happiness and song,
          Month that cheers the sad wayfarer as he plods the road along;
          Spreading out a velvet carpet, green and yellow, for his feet,
          And affording for his rest hours many a cool and sweet retreat.

          When mother sleeps, a slamming door
            Disturbs her not at all;
          A man might walk across the floor
            Or wander through the hall
          A pistol shot outside would not
            Drive slumber from her eyes—
          But she is always on the spot
            The moment baby cries.

          The thunder crash she would not hear,
            Nor shouting in the street;
          A barking dog, however near,
            Of sleep can never cheat
          Dear mother, but I've noticed this
            To my profound surprise:
          That always wide-awake she is
            The moment baby cries.

          However weary she may be,
            Though wrapped in slumber deep,
          Somehow it always seems to me
            Her vigil she will keep.
          Sound sleeper that she is, I take
            It in her heart there lies
          A love that causes her to wake
            The moment baby cries.

          The patter of rain on the roof,
            The glint of the sun on the rose;
          Of life, these the warp and the woof,
            The weaving that everyone knows.
          Now grief with its consequent tear,
            Now joy with its luminous smile;
          The days are the threads of the year—
            Is what I am weaving worth while?

          What pattern have I on my loom?
            Shall my bit of tapestry please?
          Am I working with gray threads of gloom?
            Is there faith in the figures I seize?
          When my fingers are lifeless and cold,
            And the threads I no longer can weave
          Shall there be there for men to behold
            One sign of the things I believe?

          God sends me the gray days and rare,
            The threads from his bountiful skein,
          And many, as sunshine, are fair.
            And some are as dark as the rain.
          And I think as I toil to express
            My life through the days slipping by,
          Shall my tapestry prove a success?
            What sort of a weaver am I?

          Am I making the most of the red
            And the bright strands of luminous gold?
          Or blotting them out with the thread
            By which all men's failure is told?
          Am I picturing life as despair,
            As a thing men shall shudder to see,
          Or weaving a bit that is fair
            That shall stand as the record of me?

          The easy roads are crowded
            And the level roads are jammed;
          The pleasant little rivers
            With the drifting folks are crammed.
          But off yonder where it's rocky,
            Where you get a better view,
          You will find the ranks are thinning
            And the travelers are few.

          Where the going's smooth and pleasant
            You will always find the throng,
          For the many, more's the pity,
            Seem to like to drift along.
          But the steeps that call for courage,
            And the task that's hard to do
          In the end result in glory
            For the never-wavering few.

          I saw him in the distance, as the train went speeding by,
          A shivery little fellow standing in the sun to dry.
          And a little pile of clothing very near him I could see:
          He was owner of a gladness that had once belonged to me.
          I have shivered as he shivered, I have dried the way he dried,
          I've stood naked in God's sunshine with my garments at my side;
          And I thought as I beheld him, of the many weary men
          Who would like to go in swimming as a little boy again.

          I saw him scarce a moment, yet I knew his lips were blue
          And I knew his teeth were chattering just as mine were wont to do;
          And I knew his merry playmates in the pond were splashing still;
          I could tell how much he envied all the boys that never chill;
          And throughout that lonesome journey, I kept living o'er and o'er
          The joys of going swimming when no bathing suits we wore;
          I was with that little fellow, standing chattering in the sun;
          I was sharing in his shivers and a partner of his fun.

          Back to me there came the pictures that I never shall forget
          When I dared not travel homewards if my shock of hair was wet,
          When I did my brief undressing under fine and friendly trees
          In the days before convention rigged us up in b.v.d's.
          And I dived for stones and metal on the mill pond's muddy floor,
          Then stood naked in the sunshine till my blood grew warm once more.
          I was back again, a youngster, in those golden days of old,
          When my teeth were wont to chatter and my lips were blue with cold.

          There is too much of sighing, and weaving
            Of pitiful tales of despair.
          There is too much of wailing and grieving,
            And too much of railing at care.
          There is far too much glorification
            Of money and pleasure and fame;
          But I sing the joy of my station,
            And I sing the love of my game.

          There is too much of tremble-lip telling
            Of hurts that have come with the fight.
          There is too much of pitiful dwelling
            On plans that have failed to go right.
          There is too much of envious pining
            For luxuries others may claim.
          Too much thought of wining and dining,
            But I sing the love of my game.

          There is too much of grim magnifying
            The troubles that come with the day,
          There is too much indifferent trying
            To travel a care-beset way.
          Too much do men think of gold-getting,
            Too much have they underwrit shame,
          Which accounts for the frowning and fretting,
            But I sing the joy of my game.

          Let's get back to the work we are doing;
            Let us reckon its joys and its pain;
          Let us pause while our tasks we're reviewing,
            To sum up the cost of each gain.
          Let us give up our whining and wailing
            Because of the bruises that maim,
          And battle the chances of failing
            As being a part of the game.

          Let us care more for serving than winning,
            Let us look at our woes as they are;
          It is time now that we were beginning
            To be less afraid of a scar.
          Let us cease in our glorification
            Of money and pleasure and fame,
          And find, whatsoe'er be our station,
            Our joy in the love of the game.

          Rough is the road I am journeying now,
            Heavy the burden I'm bearing to-day;
          But I'm humming a song, as I wander along,
            And I smile at the roses that nod by the way.
            Red roses sweet,
            Blooming there at my feet,
          Just dripping with honey and perfume and cheer;
            What a weakling I'd be
            If I tried not to see
          The joy and the comfort you bring to us here.

          Just tramping along o'er the highway of life,
            Knowing not what's ahead but still doing my best;
          And I sing as I go, for my soul seems to know
            In the end I shall come to the valley of rest.
            With the sun in my face
            And the roses to grace
          The roads that I travel, what have I to fear?
            What a coward I'd be
            If I tried not to see
          The roses of hope and the sunshine of cheer.