Just Folks

          A year is filled with glad events:
            The best is Christmas day,
          But every holiday presents
            Its special round of play,
          And looking back on boyhood now
            And all the charms it knew,
          One day, above the rest, somehow,
            Seems brightest in review.
          That day was finest, I believe;
            Though many grown-ups scoff,
          When mother said that we could leave
            Our shoes and stockings off.

          Through all the pleasant days of spring
            We begged to know once more
          The joy of barefoot wandering
            And quit the shoes we wore;
          But always mother shook her head
            And answered with a smile:
          "It is too soon, too soon," she said.
            "Wait just a little while."
          Then came that glorious day at last
            When mother let us know
          That fear of taking cold was past
            And we could barefoot go.

          Though Christmas day meant much to me,
            And eagerly I'd try
          The first boy on the street to be
            The Fourth day of July,
          I think: the summit of my joy
            Was reached that happy day
          Each year, when, as a barefoot boy,
            I hastened out to play.
          Could I return to childhood fair,
            That day I think I'd choose
          When mother said I needn't wear
            My stockings and my shoes.

          I reckon the finest sight of all
            That a man can see in this world of ours
          Ain't the works of art on the gallery wall,
            Or the red an' white o' the fust spring flowers,
          Or a hoard o' gold from the yellow mines;
            But the' sight that'll make ye want t' yell
          Is t' catch a glimpse o' the fust pink signs
            In yer baby's cheek, that she's gittin' well.

          When ye see the pink jes' a-creepin' back
            T' the pale, drawn cheek, an' ye note a smile,
          Then th' cords o' yer heart that were tight, grow slack
            An' ye jump fer joy every little while,
          An' ye tiptoe back to her little bed
            As though ye doubted yer eyes, or were
          Afraid it was fever come back instead,
            An' ye found that th' pink still blossomed there.

          Ye've watched fer that smile an' that bit o' bloom
            With a heavy heart fer weeks an' weeks;
          An' a castle o' joy becomes that room
            When ye glimpse th' pink 'in yer baby's cheeks.
          An' out o' yer breast flies a weight o' care,
            An' ye're lifted up by some magic spell,
          An' yer heart jes' naturally beats a prayer
            O' joy to the Lord 'cause she's gittin' well.

          I've' felt some little thrills of pride, I've inwardly rejoiced
          Along the pleasant lanes of life to hear my praises voiced;
          No great distinction have I claimed, but in a humble way
          Some satisfactions sweet have come to brighten many a day;
          But of the joyous thrills of life the finest that could be
          Was mine upon that day when first a stranger "mistered" me.

          I had my first long trousers on, and wore a derby too,
          But I was still a little boy to everyone I knew.
          I dressed in manly fashion, and I tried to act the part,
          But I felt that I was awkward and lacked the manly art.
          And then that kindly stranger spoke my name and set me free;
          I was sure I'd come to manhood on the day he "mistered" me.

          I never shall forget the joy that suddenly was mine,
          The sweetness of the thrill that seemed to dance along my spine,
          The pride that swelled within me, as he shook my youthful hand
          And treated me as big enough with grown up men to stand.
          I felt my body straighten and a stiffening at each knee,
          And was gloriously happy, just because he'd "mistered" me.

          I cannot now recall his name, I only wish I could.
          I've often wondered if that day he really understood
          How much it meant unto a boy, still wearing boyhood's tan,
          To find that others noticed that he'd grown to be a man.
          Now I try to treat as equal every growing boy I see
          In memory of that kindly man—the first to "mister" me.

          "Men will grow weary," said the Lord,
          "Of working for their bed and board.
          They'll weary of the money chase
          And want to find a resting place
          Where hum of wheel is never heard
          And no one speaks an angry word,
          And selfishness and greed and pride
          And petty motives don't abide.
          They'll need a place where they can go
          To wash their souls as white as snow.
          They will be better men and true
          If they can play a day or two."

          The Lord then made the brooks to flow
          And fashioned rivers here below,
          And many lakes; for water seems
          Best suited for a mortal's dreams.
          He placed about them willow trees
          To catch the murmur of the breeze,
          And sent the birds that sing the best
          Among the foliage to nest.
          He filled each pond and stream and lake
          With fish for man to come and take;
          Then stretched a velvet carpet deep
          On which a weary soul could sleep.

          It seemed to me the Good Lord knew
          That man would want something to do
          When worn and wearied with the stress
          Of battling hard for world success.
          When sick at heart of all the strife
          And pettiness of daily life,
          He knew he'd need, from time to time,
          To cleanse himself of city grime,
          And he would want some place to be
          Where hate and greed he'd never see.
          And so on lakes and streams and brooks
          The Good Lord fashioned fishing nooks.

          Show the flag and let it wave
          As a symbol of the brave
          Let it float upon the breeze
          As a sign for each who sees
          That beneath it, where it rides,
          Loyalty to-day abides.

          Show the flag and signify
          That it wasn't born to die;
          Let its colors speak for you
          That you still are standing true,
          True in sight of God and man
          To the work that flag began.

          Show the flag that all may see
          That you serve humanity.
          Let it whisper to the breeze
          That comes singing through the trees
          That whatever storms descend
          You'll be faithful to the end.

          Show the flag and let it fly,
          Cheering every passer-by.
          Men that may have stepped aside,
          May have lost their old-time pride,
          May behold it there, and then,
          Consecrate themselves again.

          Show the flag! The day is gone
          When men blindly hurry on
          Serving only gods of gold;
          Now the spirit that was cold
          Warms again to courage fine.
          Show the flag and fall in line!

          It's good to have the trees again, the singing of the breeze again,
          It's good to see the lilacs bloom as lovely as of old.
          It's good that we can feel again the touch of beauties real again,
          For hearts and minds, of sorrow now, have all that they can hold.

          The roses haven't changed a bit, nor have the lilacs stranged a bit,
          They bud and bloom the way they did before the war began.
          The world is upside down to-day, there's much to make us frown to-day,
          And gloom and sadness everywhere beset the path of man.

          But now the lilacs bloom again and give us their perfume again,
          And now the roses smile at us and nod along the way;
          And it is good to see again the blossoms on each tree again,
          And feel that nature hasn't changed the way we have to-day.

          Oh, we have changed from what we were; we're not the carefree lot we were;
          Our hearts are filled with sorrow now and grave concern and pain,
          But it is good to see once more, the blooming lilac tree once more,
          And find the constant roses here to comfort us again.

          To serve my country day by day
          At any humble post I may;
          To honor and respect her flag,
          To live the traits of which I brag;
          To be American in deed
          As well as in my printed creed.

          To stand for truth and honest toil,
          To till my little patch of soil,
          And keep in mind the debt I owe
          To them who died that I might know
          My country, prosperous and free,
          And passed this heritage to me.

          I always must in trouble's hour
          Be guided by the men in power;
          For God and country I must live,
          My best for God and country give;
          No act of mine that men may scan
          Must shame the name American.

          To do my best and play my part,
          American in mind and heart;
          To serve the flag and bravely stand
          To guard the glory of my land;
          To be American in deed:
          God grant me strength to keep this creed!

          The road to laughter beckons me,
            The road to all that's best;
          The home road where I nightly see
            The castle of my rest;
          The path where all is fine and fair,
            And little children run,
          For love and joy are waiting there
            As soon as day is done.

          There is no rich reward of fame
            That can compare with this:
          At home I wear an honest name,
            My lips are fit to kiss.
          At home I'm always brave and strong,
            And with the setting sun
          They find no trace of shame or wrong
            In anything I've done.

          There shine the eyes that only see
            The good I've tried to do;
          They think me what I'd like to be;
            They know that I am true.
          And whether I have lost my fight
            Or whether I have won,
          I find a faith that I've been right
            As soon as day is done.

          It makes me smile to hear 'em tell each other nowadays
          The burdens they are bearing, with a child or two to raise.
          Of course the cost of living has gone soaring to the sky
          And our kids are wearing garments that my parents couldn't buy.
          Now my father wasn't wealthy, but I never heard him squeal
          Because eight of us were sitting at the table every meal.

          People fancy they are martyrs if their children number three,
          And four or five they reckon makes a large-sized family.
          A dozen hungry youngsters at a table I have seen
          And their daddy didn't grumble when they licked the platter clean.
          Oh, I wonder how these mothers and these fathers up-to-date
          Would like the job of buying little shoes for seven or eight.

          We were eight around the table in those happy days back them,
          Eight that cleaned our plates of pot-pie and then passed them up again;
          Eight that needed shoes and stockings, eight to wash and put to bed,
          And with mighty little money in the purse, as I have said,
          But with all the care we brought them, and through all the days of stress,
          I never heard my father or my mother wish for less.

          The job will not make you, my boy;
            The job will not bring you to fame
          Or riches or honor or joy
            Or add any weight to your name.
          You may fail or succeed where you are,
            May honestly serve or may rob;
              From the start to the end
              Your success will depend
            On just what you make of your job.

          Don't look on the job as the thing
            That shall prove what you're able to do;
          The job does no more than to bring
            A chance for promotion to you.
          Men have shirked in high places and won
            Very justly the jeers of the mob;
              And you'll find it is true
              That it's all up to you
            To say what shall come from the job.

          The job is an incident small;
            The thing that's important is man.
          The job will not help you at all
            If you won't do the best that you can.
          It is you that determines your fate,
            You stand with your hand on the knob
              Of fame's doorway to-day,
              And life asks you to say
            Just what you will make of your job.

          I can pass up the lure of a jewel to wear
            With never the trace of a sigh,
          The things on a shelf that I'd like for myself
            I never regret I can't buy.
          I can go through the town passing store after store
            Showing things it would please me to own,
          With never a trace of despair on my face,
            But I can't let a toy shop alone.

          I can throttle the love of fine raiment to death
            And I don't know the craving for rum,
          But I do know the joy that is born of a toy,
            And the pleasure that comes with a drum
          I can reckon the value of money at times,
            And govern my purse strings with sense,
          But I fall for a toy for my girl or my boy
            And never regard the expense.

          It's seldom I sigh for unlimited gold
            Or the power of a rich man to buy;
          My courage is stout when the doing without
            Is only my duty, but I
          Curse the shackles of thrift when I gaze at the toys
            That my kiddies are eager to own,
          And I'd buy everything that they wish for, by Jing!
            If their mother would let me alone.

          There isn't much fun spending coin on myself
            For neckties and up-to-date lids,
          But there's pleasure tenfold, in the silver and gold
            I part with for things for the kids.
          I can go through the town passing store after store
            Showing things it would please me to own,
          But to thrift I am lost; I won't reckon the cost
            When I'm left in a toy shop alone.

          The mother on the sidewalk as the troops are marching by
          Is the mother of Old Glory that is waving in the sky.
          Men have fought to keep it splendid, men have died to keep it bright,
          But that flag was born of woman and her sufferings day and night;
          'Tis her sacrifice has made it, and once more we ought to pray
          For the brave and loyal mother of the boy who goes away.

          There are days of grief before her; there are hours that she will weep;
          There are nights of anxious waiting when her fear will banish sleep;
          She has heard her country calling and has risen to the test,
          And has placed upon the altar of the nation's need, her best.
          And no man shall ever suffer in the turmoil of the fray
          The anguish of the mother of the boy who goes away.

          You may boast men's deeds of glory, you may tell their courage great,
          But to die is easier service than alone to sit and wait,
          And I hail the little mother, with the tear-stained face and grave,
          Who has given the flag a soldier—she's the bravest of the brave.
          And that banner we are proud of, with its red and blue and white,
          Is a lasting holy tribute to all mothers' love of right.

          The finest tribute we can pay
          Unto our hero dead to-day,
          Is not a rose wreath, white and red,
          In memory of the blood they shed;
          It is to stand beside each mound,
          Each couch of consecrated ground,
          And pledge ourselves as warriors true
          Unto the work they died to do.

          Into God's valleys where they lie
          At rest, beneath the open sky,
          Triumphant now o'er every foe,
          As living tributes let us go.
          No wreath of rose or immortelles
          Or spoken word or tolling bells
          Will do to-day, unless we give
          Our pledge that liberty shall live.

          Our hearts must be the roses red
          We place above our hero dead;
          To-day beside their graves we must
          Renew allegiance to their trust;
          Must bare our heads and humbly say
          We hold the Flag as dear as they,
          And stand, as once they stood, to die
          To keep the Stars and Stripes on high.

          The finest tribute we can pay
          Unto our hero dead to-day
          Is not of speech or roses red,
          But living, throbbing hearts instead,
          That shall renew the pledge they sealed
          With death upon the battlefield:
          That freedom's flag shall bear no stain
          And free men wear no tyrant's chain.

          I stood and watched him playing,
            A little lad of three,
          And back to me came straying
            The years that used to be;
          In him the boy was Maying
            Who once belonged to me.

          The selfsame brown his eyes were
            As those that once I knew;
          As glad and gay his cries were,
            He owned his laughter, too.
          His features, form and size were
            My baby's, through and through.

          His ears were those I'd sung to;
            His chubby little hands
          Were those that I had clung to;
            His hair in golden strands
          It seemed my heart was strung to
            By love's unbroken bands.

          With him I lived the old days
            That seem so far away;
          The beautiful and bold days
            When he was here to play;
          The sunny and the gold days
            Of that remembered May.

          I know not who he may be
            Nor where his home may be,
          But I shall every day be
            In hope again to see
          The image of the baby
            Who once belonged to me.

          The stick-together families are happier by far
          Than the brothers and the sisters who take separate highways are.
          The gladdest people living are the wholesome folks who make
          A circle at the fireside that no power but death can break.
          And the finest of conventions ever held beneath the sun
          Are the little family gatherings when the busy day is done.

          There are rich folk, there are poor folk, who imagine they are wise,
          And they're very quick to shatter all the little family ties.
          Each goes searching after pleasure in his own selected way,
          Each with strangers likes to wander, and with strangers likes to play.
          But it's bitterness they harvest, and it's empty joy they find,
          For the children that are wisest are the stick-together kind.

          There are some who seem to fancy that for gladness they must roam,
          That for smiles that are the brightest they must wander far from home.
          That the strange friend is the true friend, and they travel far astray
          they waste their lives in striving for a joy that's far away,
          But the gladdest sort of people, when the busy day is done,
          Are the brothers and the sisters who together share their fun.

          It's the stick-together family that wins the joys of earth,
          That hears the sweetest music and that finds the finest mirth;
          It's the old home roof that shelters all the charm that life can give;
          There you find the gladdest play-ground, there the happiest spot to live.
          And, O weary, wandering brother, if contentment you would win,
          Come you back unto the fireside and be comrade with your kin.

          If certain folks that I know well
          Should come to me their woes to tell
          I'd read the sorrow in their faces
          And I could analyze their cases.
          I watch some couples day by day
          Go madly on their selfish way
          Forever seeking happiness
          And always finding something less.
          If she whose face is fair to see,
          Yet lacks one charm that there should be,
          Should open wide her heart to-day
          I think I know what she would say.

          She'd tell me that his love seems cold
          And not the love she knew of old;
          That for the home they've built to share
          No longer does her husband care;
          That he seems happier away
          Than by her side, and every day
          That passes leaves them more apart;
          And then perhaps her tears would start
          And in a softened voice she'd add:
          "Sometimes I wonder, if we had
          A baby now to love, if he
          Would find so many faults in me?"

          And if he came to tell his woe
          Just what he'd say to me, I know:
          "There's something dismal in the place
          That always stares me in the face.
          I love her. She is good and sweet
          But still my joy is incomplete.
          And then it seems to me that she
          Can only see the faults in me.
          I wonder sometimes if we had
          A little girl or little lad,
          If life with all its fret and fuss
          Would then seem so monotonous?"

          And what I'd say to them I know.
          I'd bid them straightway forth to go
          And find that child and take him in
          And start the joy of life to win.
          You foolish, hungry souls, I'd say,
          You're living in a selfish way.
          A baby's arms stretched out to you
          Will give you something real to do.
          And though God has not sent one down
          To you, within this very town
          Somewhere a little baby lies
          That would bring gladness to your eyes.

          You cannot live this life for gold
          Or selfish joys. As you grow old
          You'll find that comfort only springs
          From living for the living things.
          And home must be a barren place
          That never knows a baby's face.
          Take in a child that needs your care,
          Give him your name and let him share
          Your happiness and you will own
          More joy than you have ever known,
          And, what is more, you'll come to feel
          That you are doing something real.

          Sunshine and shadow, blue sky and gray,
          Laughter and tears as we tread on our way;
          Hearts that are heavy, then hearts that are light,
          Eyes that are misty and eyes that are bright;
          Losses and gains in the heat of the strife,
          Each in proportion to round out his life.

          Into the crucible, stirred by the years,
          Go all our hopes and misgivings and fears;
          Glad days and sad days, our pleasures and pains,
          Worries and comforts, our losses and gains.
          Out of the crucible shall there not come
          Joy undefiled when we pour off the scum?

          Out of the sadness and anguish and woe,
          Out of the travail and burdens we know,
          Out of the shadow that darkens the way,
          Out of the failure that tries us to-day,
          Have you a doubt that contentment will come
          When you've purified life and discarded the scum?

          Tinctured with sorrow and flavored with sighs,
          Moistened with tears that have flowed from your eyes;
          Perfumed with sweetness of loves that have died,
          Leavened with failures, with grief sanctified,
          Sacred and sweet is the joy that must come
          From the furnace of life when you've poured off the scum.

          If he is honest, kindly, true,
            And glad to work from day to day;
          If when his bit of toil is through
            With children he will stoop to play;
          If he does always what he can
            To serve another's time of need,
          Then I shall hail him as a man
            And never ask him what's his creed.

          If he respects a woman's name
            And guards her from all thoughtless jeers;
          If he is glad to play life's game
            And not risk all to get the cheers;
          If he disdains to win by bluff
            And scorns to gain by shady tricks,
          I hold that he is good enough
            Regardless of his politics.

          If he is glad his much to share
            With them who little here possess,
          If he will stand by what is fair
            And not desert to claim success,
          If he will leave a smile behind
            As he proceeds from place to place,
          He has the proper frame of mind,
            And I won't stop to ask his race.

          For when at last life's battle ends
            And all the troops are called on high
          We shall discover many friends
            That thoughtlessly we journeyed by.
          And we shall learn that God above
            Has judged His creatures by their deeds,
          That millions there have won His love
            Who spoke in different tongues and creeds.

          The Fishing Outfit

          You may talk of stylish raiment,
            You may boast your broadcloth fine,
          And the price you gave in payment
            May be treble that of mine.
          But there's one suit I'd not trade you
            Though it's shabby and it's thin,
          For the garb your tailor made you:
              That's the tattered,
              Mud-bespattered
            Suit that I go fishing in.

          There's no king in silks and laces
            And with jewels on his breast,
          With whom I would alter places.
            There's no man so richly dressed
          Or so like a fashion panel
            That, his luxuries to win,
          I would swap my shirt of flannel
              And the rusty,
              Frayed and dusty
            Suit that I go fishing in.

          'Tis an outfit meant for pleasure;
            It is freedom's raiment, too;
          It's a garb that I shall treasure
            Till my time of life is through.
          Though perhaps it looks the saddest
            Of all robes for mortal skin,
          I am proudest and I'm gladdest
              In that easy,
              Old and greasy
            Suit that I go fishing in.

          Last year he wanted building blocks,
            And picture books and toys,
          A saddle horse that gayly rocks,
            And games for little boys.
          But now he's big and all that stuff
            His whim no longer suits;
          He tells us that he's old enough
            To ask for rubber boots.

          Last year whatever Santa brought
            Delighted him to own;
          He never gave his wants a thought
            Nor made his wishes known.
          But now he says he wants a gun,
            The kind that really shoots,
          And I'm confronted with a son
            Demanding rubber boots.

          The baby that we used to know
            Has somehow slipped away,
          And when or where he chanced to go
            Not one of us can say.
          But here's a helter-skelter lad
            That to me nightly scoots
          And boldly wishes that he had
            A pair of rubber boots.

          I'll bet old Santa Claus will sigh
            When down our flue he comes,
          And seeks the babe that used to lie
            And suck his tiny thumbs,
          And finds within that little bed
            A grown up boy who hoots
          At building blocks, and wants instead
            A pair of rubber boots.

          The dead friends live and always will;
          Their presence hovers round us still.
          It seems to me they come to share
          Each joy or sorrow that we bear.
          Among the living I can feel
          The sweet departed spirits steal,
          And whether it be weal or woe,
          I walk with those I used to know.
          I can recall them to my side
          Whenever I am struggle-tried;
          I've but to wish for them, and they
          Come trooping gayly down the way,
          And I can tell to them my grief
          And from their presence find relief.
          In sacred memories below
          Still live the friends of long ago.

          Laughter sort o' settles breakfast better than digestive pills;
          Found it, somehow in my travels, cure for every sort of ills;
          When the hired help have riled me with their slipshod, careless ways,
          An' I'm bilin' mad an' cussin' an' my temper's all ablaze,
          If the calf gets me to laughin' while they're teachin' him to feed
          Pretty soon I'm feelin' better, 'cause I've found the cure I need.

          Like to start the day with laughter; when I've had a peaceful night,
          An' can greet the sun all smilin', that day's goin' to be all right.
          But there's nothing goes to suit me, when my system's full of bile;
          Even horses quit their pullin' when the driver doesn't smile,
          But they'll buckle to the traces when they hear a glad giddap,
          Just as though they like to labor for a cheerful kind o' chap.

          Laughter keeps me strong an' healthy. You can bet I'm all run down,
          Fit for doctor folks an' nurses when I cannot shake my frown.
          Found in farmin' laughter's useful, good for sheep an' cows an' goats;
          When I've laughed my way through summer, reap the biggest crop of oats.
          Laughter's good for any business, leastwise so it seems to me
          Never knew a smilin' feller but was busy as could be.

          Sometimes sit an' think about it, ponderin' on the ways of life,
          Wonderin' why mortals gladly face the toil an care an' strife,
          Then I come to this conclusion—take it now for what it's worth
          It's the joy of laughter keeps us plodding on this stretch of earth.
          Men the fun o' life are seeking—that's the reason for the calf
          Spillin' mash upon his keeper—men are hungry for a laugh.

          If I had lived in Franklin's time I'm most afraid that I,
          Beholding him out in the rain, a kite about to fly,
          And noticing upon its tail the barn door's rusty key,
          Would, with the scoffers on the street, have chortled in my glee;
          And with a sneer upon my lips I would have said of Ben,
          "His belfry must be full of bats. He's raving, boys, again!"

          I'm glad I didn't live on earth when Fulton had his dream,
          And told his neighbors marvelous tales of what he'd do with steam,
          For I'm not sure I'd not have been a member of the throng
          That couldn't see how paddle-wheels could shove a boat along.
          At "Fulton's Folly" I'd have sneered, as thousands did back then,
          And called the Clermont's architect the craziest of men.

          Yet Franklin gave us wonders great and Fulton did the same,
          And many "boobs" have left behind an everlasting fame.
          And dead are all their scoffers now and all their sneers forgot
          And scarce a nickel's worth of good was brought here by the lot.
          I shudder when I stop to think, had I been living then,
          I might have been a scoffer, too, and jeered at Bob and Ben.

          I am afraid to-day to sneer at any fellow's dream.
          Time was I thought men couldn't fly or sail beneath the stream.
          I never call a man a boob who toils throughout the night
          On visions that I cannot see, because he may be right.
          I always think of Franklin's trick, which brought the jeers of men.
          And to myself I say, "Who knows but here's another Ben?"

          The pathway of the living is our ever-present care.
          Let us do our best to smooth it and to make it bright and fair;
          Let us travel it with kindness, let's be careful as we tread,
          And give unto the living what we'd offer to the dead.

          The pathway of the living we can beautify and grace;
          We can line it deep with roses and make earth a happier place.
          But we've done all mortals can do, when our prayers are softly said
          For the souls of those that travel o'er the pathway of the dead.

          The pathway of the living all our strength and courage needs,
          There we ought to sprinkle favors, there we ought to sow our deeds,
          There our smiles should be the brightest, there our kindest words be said,
          For the angels have the keeping of the pathway of the dead.

          The world is full of gladness,
            There are joys of many kinds,
          There's a cure for every sadness,
            That each troubled mortal finds.
          And my little cares grow lighter
            And I cease to fret and sigh,
          And my eyes with joy grow brighter
            When she makes a lemon pie.

          When the bronze is on the filling
            That's one mass of shining gold,
          And its molten joy is spilling
            On the plate, my heart grows bold
          And the kids and I in chorus
            Raise one glad exultant cry
          And we cheer the treat before us
            Which is mother's lemon pie.

          Then the little troubles vanish,
            And the sorrows disappear,
          Then we find the grit to banish
            All the cares that hovered near,
          And we smack our lips in pleasure
            O'er a joy no coin can buy,
          And we down the golden treasure
            Which is known as lemon pie.