Just Folks

          We've raised a flagpole on the farm
            And flung Old Glory to the sky,
          And it's another touch of charm
            That seems to cheer the passer-by,
          But more than that, no matter where
            We're laboring in wood and field,
          We turn and see it in the air,
            Our promise of a greater yield.
          It whispers to us all day long,
            From dawn to dusk: "Be true, be strong;
          Who falters now with plow or hoe
            Gives comfort to his country's foe."

          It seems to me I've never tried
            To do so much about the place,
          Nor been so slow to come inside,
            But since I've got the flag to face,
          Each night when I come home to rest
            I feel that I must look up there
          And say: "Old Flag, I've done my best,
            To-day I've tried to do my share."
          And sometimes, just to catch the breeze,
            I stop my work, and o'er the trees
          Old Glory fairly shouts my way:
            "You're shirking far too much to-day!"

          The help have caught the spirit, too;
            The hired man takes off his cap
          Before the old red, white and blue,
            Then to the horses says: "giddap!"
          And starting bravely to the field
            He tells the milkmaid by the door:
          "We're going to make these acres yield
            More than they've ever done before."
          She smiles to hear his gallant brag,
            Then drops a curtsey to the flag.
          And in her eyes there seems to shine
            A patriotism that is fine.

          We've raised a flagpole on the farm
            And flung Old Glory to the sky;
          We're far removed from war's alarm,
            But courage here is running high.
          We're doing things we never dreamed
            We'd ever find the time to do;
          Deeds that impossible once seemed
            Each morning now we hurry through.
          The flag now waves above our toil
          And sheds its glory on the soil,
          And boy and man looks up to it
          As if to say: "I'll do my bit!"

          There are different kinds of heroes, there are some you hear about.
          They get their pictures printed, and their names the newsboys shout;
          There are heroes known to glory that were not afraid to die
          In the service of their country and to keep the flag on high;
          There are brave men in the trenches, there are brave men on the sea,
          But the silent, quiet heroes also prove their bravery.

          I am thinking of a hero that was never known to fame,
          Just a manly little fellow with a very common name;
          He was freckle-faced and ruddy, but his head was nobly shaped,
          And he one day took the whipping that his comrades all escaped.
          And he never made a murmur, never whimpered in reply;
          He would rather take the censure than to stand and tell a lie.

          And I'm thinking of another that had courage that was fine,
          And I've often wished in moments that such strength of will were mine.
          He stood against his comrades, and he left them then and there
          When they wanted him to join them in a deed that wasn't fair.
          He stood alone, undaunted, with his little head erect;
          He would rather take the jeering than to lose his self-respect.

          And I know a lot of others that have grown to manhood now,
          Who have yet to wear the laurel that adorns the victor's brow.
          They have plodded on in honor through the dusty, dreary ways,
          They have hungered for life's comforts and the joys of easy days,
          But they've chosen to be toilers, and in this their splendor's told:
          They would rather never have it than to do some things for gold.

          When I was a boy, and it chanced to rain,
            Mother would always watch for me;
          She used to stand by the window pane,
            Worried and troubled as she could be.
          And this was the question I used to hear,
          The very minute that I drew near;
          The words she used, I can't forget:
          "Tell me, my boy, if your feet are wet."

          Worried about me was mother dear,
            As healthy a lad as ever strolled
          Over a turnpike, far or near,
            'Fraid to death that I'd take a cold.
          Always stood by the window pane,
          Watching for me in the pouring rain;
          And her words in my ears are ringing yet:
          "Tell me, my boy, if your feet are wet."

          Stockings warmed by the kitchen fire,
            And slippers ready for me to wear;
          Seemed that mother would never tire,
            Giving her boy the best of care,
          Thinking of him the long day through,
          In the worried way that all mothers do;
          Whenever it rained she'd start to fret,
          Always fearing my feet were wet.

          And now, whenever it rains, I see
            A vision of mother in days of yore,
          Still waiting there to welcome me,
            As she used to do by the open door.
          And always I think as I enter there
          Of a mother's love and a mother's care;
          Her words in my ears are ringing yet:
          "Tell me, my boy, if your feet are wet."

          I am eager once more to feel easy,
          I'm weary of thinking of dress;
          I'm heartily sick of stiff collars,
          And trousers the tailor must press.
          I'm eagerly waiting the glad days—
          When fashion will cease to assert
          What I must put on every morning—
          The days of the blue flannel shirt.

          I want to get out in the country
          And rest by the side of the lake;
          To go a few days without shaving,
          And give grim old custom the shake.
          A week's growth of whiskers, I'm thinking,
          At present my chin wouldn't hurt;
          And I'm yearning to don those old trousers
          And loaf in that blue flannel shirt.

          You can brag all you like of your fashions,
          The style of your cutaway coat;
          You can boast of your tailor-made raiment,
          And the collar that strangles your throat;
          But give me the old pair of trousers
          That seem to improve with the dirt,
          And let me get back to the comfort
          That's born of a blue flannel shirt.

          My grandpa is the finest man
          Excep' my pa. My grandpa can
          Make kites an' carts an' lots of things
          You pull along the ground with strings,
          And he knows all the names of birds,
          And how they call 'thout using words,
          And where they live and what they eat,
          And how they build their nests so neat.
          He's lots of fun! Sometimes all day
          He comes to visit me and play.
          You see he's getting old, and so
          To work he doesn't have to go,
          And when it isn't raining, he
          Drops in to have some fun with me.

          He takes my hand and we go out
          And everything we talk about.
          He tells me how God makes the trees,
          And why it hurts to pick up bees.
          Sometimes he stops and shows to me
          The place where fairies used to be;
          And then he tells me stories, too,
          And I am sorry when he's through.
          When I am asking him for more
          He says: "Why there's a candy store!
          Let's us go there and see if they
          Have got the kind we like to-day."
          Then when we get back home my ma
          Says: "You are spoiling Buddy, Pa."

          My grandpa is my mother's pa,
          I guess that's what all grandpas are.
          And sometimes ma, all smiles, will say:
          "You didn't always act that way.
          When I was little, then you said
          That children should be sent to bed
          And not allowed to rule the place
          And lead old folks a merry chase."
          And grandpa laughs and says: "That's true,
          That's what I used to say to you.
          It is a father's place to show
          The young the way that they should go,
          But grandpas have a different task,
          Which is to get them all they ask."

          When I get big and old and gray
          I'm going to spend my time in play;
          I'm going to be a grandpa, too,
          And do as all the grandpas do.
          I'll buy my daughter's children things
          Like horns and drums and tops with strings,
          And tell them all about the trees
          And frogs and fish and birds and bees
          And fairies in the shady glen
          And tales of giants, too, and when
          They beg of me for just one more,
          I'll take them to the candy store;
          I'll buy them everything they see
          The way my grandpa does for me

          The train of cars that Santa brought is out of kilter now;
          While pa was showing how they went he broke the spring somehow.
          They used to run around a track—at least they did when he
          Would let me take them in my hands an' wind 'em with a key.
          I could 'a' had some fun with 'em, if only they would go,
          But, gee! I never had a chance, for pa enjoyed em so.

          The automobile that I got that ran around the floor
          Was lots of fun when it was new, but it won't go no more.
          Pa wound it up for Uncle Jim to show him how it went,
          And when those two got through with it the runnin' gear was bent,
          An' now it doesn't go at all. I mustn't grumble though,
          'Cause while it was in shape to run my pa enjoyed it so.

          I've got my blocks as good as new, my mitts are perfect yet;
          Although the snow is on the ground I haven't got em wet.
          I've taken care of everything that Santa brought to me,
          Except the toys that run about when wound up with a key.
          But next year you can bet I won't make any such mistake;
          I'm going to ask for toys an' things that my pa cannot break.

          You think that the failures are many,
            You think the successes are few,
          But you judge by the rule of the penny,
            And not by the good that men do.
          You judge men by standards of treasure
            That merely obtain upon earth,
          When the brother you're snubbing may measure
            Full-length to God's standard of worth.

          The failures are not in the ditches,
            The failures are not in the ranks,
          They have missed the acquirement of riches,
            Their fortunes are not in the banks.
          Their virtues are never paraded,
            Their worth is not always in view,
          But they're fighting their battles unaided,
            And fighting them honestly, too.

          There are failures to-day in high places
            The failures aren't all in the low;
          There are rich men with scorn in their faces
            Whose homes are but castles of woe.
          The homes that are happy are many,
            And numberless fathers are true;
          And this is the standard, if any,
            By which we must judge what men do.

          Wherever loved ones are awaiting
            The toiler to kiss and caress,
          Though in Bradstreet's he hasn't a rating,
            He still is a splendid success.
          If the dear ones who gather about him
            And know what he's striving to do
          Have never a reason to doubt him,
            Is he less successful than you?

          You think that the failures are many,
            You judge by men's profits in gold;
          You judge by the rule of the penny—
            In this true success isn't told.
          This falsely man's story is telling,
            For wealth often brings on distress,
          But wherever love brightens a dwelling,
            There lives; rich or poor, a success.

          She said she was sorry the weather was bad
          The night that she asked us to dine;
          And she really appeared inexpressibly sad
          Because she had hoped 'twould be fine.
          She was sorry to hear that my wife had a cold,
          And she almost shed tears over that,
          And how sorry she was, she most feelingly told,
          That the steam wasn't on in the flat.

          She was sorry she hadn't asked others to come,
          She might just as well have had eight;
          She said she was downcast and terribly glum
          Because her dear husband was late.
          She apologized then for the home she was in,
          For the state of the rugs and the chairs,
          For the children who made such a horrible din,
          And then for the squeak in the stairs.

          When the dinner began she apologized twice
          For the olives, because they were small;
          She was certain the celery, too, wasn't nice,
          And the soup didn't suit her at all.
          She was sorry she couldn't get whitefish instead
          Of the trout that the fishmonger sent,
          But she hoped that we'd manage somehow to be fed,
          Though her dinner was not what she meant.

          She spoke her regrets for the salad, and then
          Explained she was really much hurt,
          And begged both our pardons again and again
          For serving a skimpy dessert.
          She was sorry for this and sorry for that,
          Though there really was nothing to blame.
          But I thought to myself as I put on my hat,
          Perhaps she is sorry we came.

          I've trod the links with many a man,
            And played him club for club;
          'Tis scarce a year since I began
            And I am still a dub.
          But this I've noticed as we strayed
            Along the bunkered way,
          No one with me has ever played
            As he did yesterday.

          It makes no difference what the drive,
            Together as we walk,
          Till we up to the ball arrive,
            I get the same old talk:
          "To-day there's something wrong with me,
            Just what I cannot say.

          "Would you believe I got a three
            For this hole—yesterday?"
          I see them top and slice a shot,
            And fail to follow through,
          And with their brassies plough the lot,
            The very way I do.
          To six and seven their figures run,
            And then they sadly say:
          "I neither dubbed, nor foozled one
            When I played—yesterday."

          I have no yesterdays to count,
            No good work to recall;
          Each morning sees hope proudly mount,
            Each evening sees it fall.
          And in the locker room at night,
            When men discuss their play,
          I hear them and I wish I might
            Have seen them—yesterday,

          Oh, dear old yesterday! What store
            Of joys for men you hold!
          I'm sure there is no day that's more
            Remembered or extolled.
          I'm off my task myself a bit,
            My mind has run astray;
          I think, perhaps, I should have writ
            These verses—yesterday.

          Here she walked and romped about,
            And here beneath this apple tree
          Where all the grass is trampled out
            The swing she loved so used to be.
          This path is but a path to you,
            Because my child you never knew.

          'Twas here she used to stoop to smell
            The first bright daffodil of spring;
          'Twas here she often tripped and fell
            And here she heard the robins sing.
          You'd call this but a common place,
            But you have never seen her face.

          And it was here we used to meet.
            How beautiful a spot is this,
          To which she gayly raced to greet
            Her daddy with his evening kiss!
          You see here nothing grand or fine,
            But, Oh, what memories are mine!

          The people pass from day to day
            And never turn their heads to see
          The many charms along the way
            That mean so very much to me.
          For all things here are speaking of
            The babe that once was mine to love.

          The little old man with the curve in his back
          And the eyes that are dim and the skin that is slack,
          So slack that it wrinkles and rolls on his cheeks,
          With a thin little voice that goes "crack!" when he speaks,
          Never goes to the store but that right at his feet
          Are all of the youngsters who live on the street.

          And the little old man in the suit that was black,
          And once might have perfectly fitted his back,
          Has a boy's chubby fist in his own wrinkled hand,
          And together they trudge off to Light-Hearted Land;
          Some splendid excursions he gives every day
          To the boys and the girls in his funny old way.

          The little old man is as queer as can be;
          He'd spend all his time with a child on his knee;
          And the stories he tells I could never repeat,
          But they're always of good boys and little girls sweet;
          And the children come home at the end of the day
          To tell what the little old man had to say.

          Once the little old man didn't trudge to the store,
          And the tap of his cane wasn't heard any more;
          The children looked eagerly for him each day
          And wondered why he didn't come out to play
          Till some of them saw Doctor Brown ring his bell,
          And they wept when they heard that he might not get well.

          But after awhile he got out with his cane,
          And called all the children around him again;
          And I think as I see him go trudging along
          In the center, once more, of his light-hearted throng,
          That earth has no glory that's greater than this:
          The little old man whom the children would miss.

          Last night I got to thinkin' of the pleasant long ago,
          When I still had on knee breeches, an' I wore a flowing bow,
          An' my Sunday suit was velvet. Ma an' Pa thought it was fine,
          But I know I didn't like it—either velvet or design;
          It was far too girlish for me, for I wanted something rough
          Like what other boys were wearing, but Ma wouldn't buy such stuff.

          Ma answered all my protests in her sweet an kindly way;
          She said it didn't matter what I wore to run an' play,
          But on Sundays when all people went to church an wore their best,
          Her boy must look as stylish an' as well kept as the rest.
          So she dressed me up in velvet, an' she tied the flowing bow,
          An' she straightened out my stockings, so that not a crease would show.

          An' then I chuckled softly to myself while dreaming there
          An' I saw her standing o'er me combing out my tangled hair.
          I could feel again the tugging, an' I heard the yell I gave
          When she struck a snarl, an' softly I could hear her say: "Be brave.
          'Twill be over in a minute, and a little man like you
          Shouldn't whimper at a little bit of pain the way you do."

          Oh, I wouldn't mind the tugging at my scalp lock, and I know
          That I'd gladly wear to please her that old flowing girlish bow;
          And I think I'd even try to don once more that velvet suit,
          And blush the same old blushes, as the women called me cute,
          Could the dear old mother only take me by the hand again,
          And be as proud of me right now as she was always then.

          Last night I held my arms to you
          And you held yours to mine
          And started out to march to me
          As any soldier fine.
          You lifted up our little feet
          And laughingly advanced;
          And I stood there and gazed upon
          Your first wee steps, entranced.

          You gooed and gurgled as you came
          Without a sign of fear;
          As though you knew, your journey o'er,
          I'd greet you with a cheer.
          And, what is more, you seemed to know,
          Although you are so small,
          That I was there, with eager arms,
          To save you from a fall.

          Three tiny steps you took, and then,
          Disaster and dismay!
          Your over-confidence had led
          Your little feet astray.
          You did not see what we could see
          Nor fear what us alarms;
          You stumbled, but ere you could fall
          I caught you in my arms.

          You little tyke, in days to come
          You'll bravely walk alone,
          And you may have to wander paths
          Where dangers lurk unknown.
          And, Oh, I pray that then, as now,
          When accidents befall
          You'll still remember that I'm near
          To save you from a fall.

          It's "be a good boy, Willie,"
            And it's "run away and play,
          For Santa Claus is coming
            With his reindeer and his sleigh."
          It's "mind what mother tells you,"
            And it's "put away your toys,
          For Santa Claus is coming
            To the good girls and the boys."
          Ho, Santa Claus is coming, there is Christmas in the air,
          And little girls and little boys are good now everywhere.

          World-wide the little fellows
            Now are sweetly saying "please,"
          And "thank you," and "excuse me,"
            And those little pleasantries
          That good children are supposed to
            When there's company to hear;
          And it's just as plain as can be
            That the Christmas time is near.
          Ho, it's just as plain as can be that old Santa's on his way,
          For there are no little children that are really bad to-day.

          And when evening shadows lengthen,
            Every little curly head
          Now is ready, aye, and willing
            To be tucked away in bed;
          Not one begs to stay up longer,
            Not one even sheds a tear;
          Ho, the goodness of the children
            Is a sign that Santa's near.
          It's wonderful, the goodness of the little tots to-day,
          When they know that good old Santa has begun to pack his sleigh.

          There never was a family without its homely man,
          With legs a little longer than the ordinary plan,
          An' a shock of hair that brush an' comb can't ever straighten out,
          An' hands that somehow never seem to know what they're about;
          The one with freckled features and a nose that looks as though
          It was fashioned by the youngsters from a chunk of mother's dough.
          You know the man I'm thinking of, the homely one an' plain,
          That fairly oozes kindness like a rosebush dripping rain.
          His face is never much to see, but back of it there lies
          A heap of love and tenderness and judgment, sound and wise.

          And so I sing the homely man that's sittin' in his chair,
          And pray that every family will always have him there.
          For looks don't count for much on earth; it's hearts that wear the gold;
          An' only that is ugly which is selfish, cruel, cold.
          The family needs him, Oh, so much; more, maybe, than they know;
          Folks seldom guess a man's real worth until he has to go,
          But they will miss a heap of love an' tenderness the day
          God beckons to their homely man, an' he must go away.

          He's found in every family, it doesn't matter where
          They live or be they rich or poor, the homely man is there.
          You'll find him sitting quiet-like and sort of drawn apart,
          As though he felt he shouldn't be where folks are fine an' smart.
          He likes to hide himself away, a watcher of the fun,
          An' seldom takes a leading part when any game's begun.
          But when there's any task to do, like need for extra chairs,
          I've noticed it's the homely man that always climbs the stairs.

          And always it's the homely man that happens in to mend
          The little toys the youngsters break, for he's the children's friend.
          And he's the one that sits all night to watch beside the dead,
          And sends the worn-out sorrowers and broken hearts to bed.
          The family wouldn't be complete without him night or day,
          To smooth the little troubles out and drive the cares away.

          I do not quarrel with the gas,
            Our modern range is fine,
          The ancient stove was doomed to pass
            From Time's grim firing line,
          Yet now and then there comes to me
            The thought of dinners good
          And pies and cake that used to be
            When mother cooked with wood.

          The axe has vanished from the yard,
            The chopping block is gone,
          There is no pile of cordwood hard
            For boys to work upon;
          There is no box that must be filled
            Each morning to the hood;
          Time in its ruthlessness has willed
            The passing of the wood.

          And yet those days were fragrant days
            And spicy days and rare;
          The kitchen knew a cheerful blaze
            And friendliness was there.
          And every appetite was keen
            For breakfasts that were good
          When I had scarcely turned thirteen
            And mother cooked with wood.

          I used to dread my daily chore,
            I used to think it tough
          When mother at the kitchen door
            Said I'd not chopped enough.
          And on her baking days, I know,
            I shirked whene'er I could
          In that now happy long ago
            When mother cooked with wood.

          I never thought I'd wish to see
            That pile of wood again;
          Back then it only seemed to me
            A source of care and pain.
          But now I'd gladly give my all
            To stand where once I stood,
          If those rare days I could recall
            When mother cooked with wood.

          You can boast your round of pleasures, praise the sound of popping corks,
          Where the orchestra is playing to the rattle of the forks;
          And your after-opera dinner you may think superbly fine,
          But that can't compare, I'm certain, to the joy that's always mine
          When I reach my little dwelling—source, of all sincere delight—
          And I prowl around the pantry in the waning hours of night.

          When my business, or my pleasure, has detained me until late,
          And it's midnight, say, or after, when I reach my own estate,
          Though I'm weary with my toiling I don't hustle up to bed,
          For the inner man is hungry and he's anxious to be fed;
          Then I feel a thrill of glory from my head down to my feet
          As I prowl around the pantry after something good to eat.

          Oft I hear a call above me: "Goodness gracious, come to bed!"
          And I know that I've disturbed her by my overeager tread,
          But I've found a glass of jelly and some bread and butter, too,
          And a bit of cold fried chicken and I answer: "When I'm through!"
          Oh, there's no cafe that better serves my precious appetite
          Than the pantry in our kitchen when I get home late at night.

          You may boast your shining silver, and the linen and the flowers,
          And the music and the laughter and the lights that hang in showers;
          You may have your cafe table with its brilliant array,
          But it doesn't charm yours truly when I'm on my homeward way;
          For a greater joy awaits me, as I hunger for a bite—
          Just the joy of pantry-prowling in the middle of the night.

          "The world is against me," he said with a sigh.
          "Somebody stops every scheme that I try.
          The world has me down and it's keeping me there;
          I don't get a chance. Oh, the world is unfair!
          When a fellow is poor then he can't get a show;
          The world is determined to keep him down low."

          "What of Abe Lincoln?" I asked. "Would you say
          That he was much richer than you are to-day?
          He hadn't your chance of making his mark,
          And his outlook was often exceedingly dark;
          Yet he clung to his purpose with courage most grim
          And he got to the top. Was the world against him?"

          "What of Ben Franklin? I've oft heard it said
          That many a time he went hungry to bed.
          He started with nothing but courage to climb,
          But patiently struggled and waited his time.
          He dangled awhile from real poverty's limb,
          Yet he got to the top. Was the world against him?

          "I could name you a dozen, yes, hundreds, I guess,
          Of poor boys who've patiently climbed to success;
          All boys who were down and who struggled alone,
          Who'd have thought themselves rich if your fortune they'd known;
          Yet they rose in the world you're so quick to condemn,
          And I'm asking you now, was the world against them?"

          I know that what I did was wrong;
            I should have sent you far away.
          You tempted me, and I'm not strong;
            I tried but couldn't answer nay.
          I should have packed you off to bed;
            Instead I let you stay awhile,
          And mother scolded when I said
            That you had bribed me with your smile.

          And yesterday I gave to you
            Another piece of chocolate cake,
          Some red-ripe watermelon, too,
            And that gave you the stomach ache.
          And that was after I'd been told
            You'd had enough, you saucy miss;
          You tempted me, you five-year-old,
            And bribed me with a hug and kiss.

          And mother said I mustn't get
            You roller skates, yet here they are;
          I haven't dared to tell her yet;
            Some time, she says, I'll go too far.
          I gave my word I wouldn't buy
            These things, for accidents she fears;
          Now I must tell, when questioned why,
            Just how you bribed me with your tears.

          I've tried so hard to do the right,
            Yet I have broken every vow.
          I let you do, most every night,
            The things your mother won't allow.
          I know that I am doing wrong,
            Yet all my sense of honor flies,
          The moment that you come along
            And bribe me with those wondrous eyes.

          The world is filled with bustle and with selfishness and greed,
          It is filled with restless people that are dreaming of a deed.
          You can read it in their faces; they are dreaming of the day
          When they'll come to fame and fortune and put all their cares away.
          And I think as I behold them, though it's far indeed they roam,
          They will never find contentment save they seek for it at home.

          I watch them as they hurry through the surging lines of men,
          Spurred to speed by grim ambition, and I know they're dreaming then.
          They are weary, sick and footsore, but their goal seems far away,
          And it's little they've accomplished at the ending of the day.
          It is rest they're vainly seeking, love and laughter in the gloam,
          But they'll never come to claim it, save they claim it here at home.

          For the peace that is the sweetest isn't born of minted gold,
          And the joy that lasts the longest and still lingers when we're old
          Is no dim and distant pleasure—it is not to-morrow's prize,
          It is not the end of toiling, or the rainbow of our sighs.
          It' is every day within us—all the rest is hippodrome—
          And the soul that is the gladdest is the soul that builds a home.

          They are fools who build for glory! They are fools who pin their hopes
          On the come and go of battles or some vessel's slender ropes.
          They shall sicken and shall wither and shall never peace attain
          Who believe that real contentment only men victorious gain.
          For the only happy toilers under earth's majestic dome
          Are the ones who find their glories in the little spot called home.

          My books and I are good old pals:
            My laughing books are gay,
          Just suited for my merry moods
            When I am wont to play.
          Bill Nye comes down to joke with me
            And, Oh, the joy he spreads.
          Just like two fools we sit and laugh
            And shake our merry heads.

          When I am in a thoughtful mood,
            With Stevenson I sit,
          Who seems to know I've had enough
            Of Bill Nye and his wit.
          And so, more thoughtful than I am,
            He talks of lofty things,
          And thus an evening hour we spend
            Sedate and grave as kings.

          And should my soul be torn with grief
            Upon my shelf I find
          A little volume, torn and thumbled,
            For comfort just designed.
          I take my little Bible down
            And read its pages o'er,
          And when I part from it I find
            I'm stronger than before.