We're queer folks here.
            We'll talk about the weather,
            The good times we have had together,
          The good times near,
            The roses buddin', an' the bees
            Once more upon their nectar sprees;
            The scarlet fever scare, an' who
            Came mighty near not pullin' through,
            An' who had light attacks, an' all
            The things that int'rest, big or small;
          But here you'll never hear of sinnin'
          Or any scandal that's beginnin'.
          We've got too many other labors
          To scatter tales that harm our neighbors.

          We're strange folks here.
            We're tryin' to be cheerful,
            An' keep this home from gettin' tearful.
          We hold it dear
            Too dear for pettiness an' meanness,
            An' nasty tales of men's uncleanness.
            Here you shall come to joyous smilin',
            Secure from hate an' harsh revilin';
            Here, where the wood fire brightly blazes,
            You'll hear from us our neighbor's praises.
          Here, that they'll never grow to doubt us,
          We keep our friends always about us;
          An' here, though storms outside may pelter
          Is refuge for our friends, an' shelter.

          We've one rule here,
            An' that is to be pleasant.
            The folks we know are always present,
          Or very near.
            An' though they dwell in many places,
            We think we're talkin' to their faces;
            An' that keeps us from only seein'
            The faults in any human bein',
            An' checks our tongues when they'd go trailin'
            Into the mire of mortal failin'.
          Flaws aren't so big when folks are near you;
          You don't talk mean when they can hear you.
          An' so no scandal here is started,
          Because from friends we're never parted.

          In the corner she's left the mechanical toy,
            On the chair is her Teddy Bear fine;
          The things that I thought she would really enjoy
            Don't seem to be quite in her line.
          There's the flaxen-haired doll that is lovely to see
            And really expensively dressed,
          Left alone, all uncared for, and strange though it be,
            She likes her rag dolly the best.

          Oh, the money we spent and the plans that we laid
            And the wonderful things that we bought!
          There are toys that are cunningly, skillfully made,
            But she seems not to give them a thought.
          She was pleased when she woke and discovered them there,
            But never a one of us guessed
          That it isn't the splendor that makes a gift rare—
            She likes her rag dolly the best.

          There's the flaxen-haired doll, with the real human hair,
            There's the Teddy Bear left all alone,
          There's the automobile at the foot of the stair,
            And there is her toy telephone;
          We thought they were fine, but a little child's eyes
            Look deeper than ours to find charm,
          And now she's in bed, and the rag dolly lies
            Snuggled close on her little white arm.

          Old-fashioned flowers! I love them all:
          The morning-glories on the wall,
          The pansies in their patch of shade,
          The violets, stolen from a glade,
          The bleeding hearts and columbine,
          Have long been garden friends of mine;
          But memory every summer flocks
          About a clump of hollyhocks.

          The mother loved them years ago;
          Beside the fence they used to grow,
          And though the garden changed each year
          And certain blooms would disappear
          To give their places in the ground
          To something new that mother found,
          Some pretty bloom or rosebush rare—
          The hollyhocks were always there.

          It seems but yesterday to me
          She led me down the yard to see
          The first tall spires, with bloom aflame,
          And taught me to pronounce their name.
          And year by year I watched them grow,
          The first flowers I had come to know.
          And with the mother dear I'd yearn
          To see the hollyhocks return.

          The garden of my boyhood days
          With hollyhocks was kept ablaze;
          In all my recollections they
          In friendly columns nod and sway;
          And when to-day their blooms I see,
          Always the mother smiles at me;
          The mind's bright chambers, life unlocks
          Each summer with the hollyhocks.

          When he has more than he can eat
          To feed a stranger's not a feat.

          When he has more than he can spend
          It isn't hard to give or lend.

          Who gives but what he'll never miss
          Will never know what giving is.

          He'll win few praises from his Lord
          Who does but what he can afford.

          The widow's mite to heaven went
          Because real sacrifice it meant.

          Don't want medals on my breast,
            Don't want all the glory,
          I'm not worrying greatly lest
            The world won't hear my story.
          A chance to dream beside a stream
            Where fish are biting free;
          A day or two, 'neath skies of blue,
            Is joy enough for me.

          I do not ask a hoard of gold,
            Nor treasures rich and rare;
          I don't want all the joys to hold;
            I only want a share.
          Just now and then, away from men
            And all their haunts of pride,
          If I can steal, with rod and reel,
            I will be satisfied.

          I'll gladly work my way through life;
            I would not always play;
          I only ask to quit the strife
            For an occasional day.
          If I can sneak from toil a week
            To chum with stream and tree,
          I'll fish away and smiling say
            That life's been good to me.

          When you're up against a trouble,
            Meet it squarely, face to face;
          Lift your chin and set your shoulders,
            Plant your feet and take a brace.
          When it's vain to try to dodge it,
            Do the best that you can do;
          You may fail, but you may conquer,
            See it through!

          Black may be the clouds about you
            And your future may seem grim,
          But don't let your nerve desert you;
            Keep yourself in fighting trim.
          If the worst is bound to happen,
            Spite of all that you can do,
          Running from it will not save you,
            See it through!

          Even hope may seem but futile,
            When with troubles you're beset,
          But remember you are facing
            Just what other men have met.
          You may fail, but fall still fighting;
            Don't give up, whate'er you do;
          Eyes front, head high to the finish.
            See it through!

          If all the flowers were roses,
            If never daisies grew,
          If no old-fashioned posies
            Drank in the morning dew,
          Then man might have some reason
            To whimper and complain,
          And speak these words of treason,
            That all our toil is vain.

          If all the stars were Saturns
            That twinkle in the night,
          Of equal size and patterns,
            And equally as bright,
          Then men in humble places,
            With humble work to do,
          With frowns upon their faces
            Might trudge their journey through.

          But humble stars and posies
            Still do their best, although
          They're planets not, nor roses,
            To cheer the world below.
          And those old-fashioned daisies
            Delight the soul of man;
          They're here, and this their praise is:
            They work the Master's plan.

          Though humble be your labor,
            And modest be your sphere,
          Come, envy not your neighbor
            Whose light shines brighter here.
          Does God forget the daisies
            Because the roses bloom?
          Shall you not win His praises
            By toiling at your loom?

          Have you, the toiler humble,
            Just reason to complain,
          To shirk your task and grumble
            And think that it is vain
          Because you see a brother
            With greater work to do?
          No fame of his can smother
            The merit that's in you.

          The bright spots in my life are when the servant quits the place,
          Although that grim disturbance brings a frown to Nellie's face;
          The week between the old girl's' reign and entry of the new
          Is one that's filled with happiness and comfort through and through.
          The charm of living's back again—a charm that servants rob—
          I like the home, I like the meals, when Nellie's on the job.

          There's something in a servant's ways, however fine they be,
          That has a cold and distant touch and frets the soul of me.
          The old home never looks so well, as in that week or two
          That we are servantless and Nell has all the work to do.
          There is a sense of comfort then that makes my pulses throb
          And home is as it ought to be when Nellie's on the job.

          Think not that I'd deny her help or grudge the servant's pay;
          When one departs we try to get another right away;
          I merely state the simple fact that no such joys I've known
          As in those few brief days at home when we've been left alone.
          There is a gentleness that seems to soothe this selfish elf
          And, Oh, I like to eat those meals that Nellie gets herself!

          You cannot buy the gentle touch that mother gives the place;
          No servant girl can do the work with just the proper grace.
          And though you hired the queen of cooks to fashion your croquettes,
          Her meals would not compare with those your loving comrade gets;
          So, though the maid has quit again, and she is moved to sob,
          The old home's at its finest now, for Nellie's on the job.

          I have no wish to rail at fate,
            And vow that I'm unfairly treated;
          I do not give vent to my hate
            Because at times I am defeated.
          Life has its ups and downs, I know,
            But tell me why should people say
          Whenever after fish I go:
            "You should have been here yesterday"?

          It is my luck always to strike
            A day when there is nothing doing,
          When neither perch, nor bass, nor pike
            My baited hooks will come a-wooing.
          Must I a day late always be?
            When not a nibble comes my way
          Must someone always say to me:
            "We caught a bunch here yesterday"?

          I am not prone to discontent,
            Nor over-zealous now to climb;
          If victory is not yet meant
            For me I'll calmly bide my time.
          But I should like just once to go
            Out fishing on some lake or bay
          And not have someone mutter: "Oh,
            You should have been here yesterday."

          The Pup

          He tore the curtains yesterday,
            And scratched the paper on the wall;
          Ma's rubbers, too, have gone astray—
            She says she left them in the hall;
          He tugged the table cloth and broke
            A fancy saucer and a cup;
          Though Bud and I think it a joke
            Ma scolds a lot about the pup.

          The sofa pillows are a sight,
            The rugs are looking somewhat frayed,
          And there is ruin, left and right,
            That little Boston bull has made.
          He slept on Buddy's counterpane—
            Ma found him there when she woke up.
          I think it needless to explain
            She scolds a lot about the pup.

          And yet he comes and licks her hand
            And sometimes climbs into her lap
          And there, Bud lets me understand,
            He very often takes his nap.
          And Bud and I have learned to know
            She wouldn't give the rascal up:
          She's really fond of him, although
            She scolds a lot about the pup.

          We understand a lot of things we never did before,
          And it seems that to each other Ma and I are meaning more.
          I don't know how to say it, but since little Jessie died
          We have learned that to be happy we must travel side by side.
          You can share your joys and pleasures, but you never come to know
          The depth there is in loving, till you've got a common woe.

          We're past the hurt of fretting—we can talk about it now:
          She slipped away so gently and the fever left her brow
          So softly that we didn't know we'd lost her, but, instead,
          We thought her only sleeping as we watched beside her bed.
          Then the doctor, I remember, raised his head, as if to say
          What his eyes had told already, and Ma fainted dead away.

          Up to then I thought that money was the thing I ought to get;
          And I fancied, once I had it, I should never have to fret.
          But I saw that I had wasted precious hours in seeking wealth;
          I had made a tidy fortune, but I couldn't buy her health.
          And I saw this truth much clearer than I'd ever seen before:
          That the rich man and the poor man have to let death through the door.

          We're not half so keen for money as one time we used to be;
          I am thinking more of mother and she's thinking more of me.
          Now we spend more time together, and I know we're meaning more
          To each other on life's journey, than we ever meant before.
          It was hard to understand it! Oh, the dreary nights we've cried!
          But we've found the depth of loving, since the day that Jessie died.

          Ain't no use as I can see
          In sittin' underneath a tree
          An' growlin' that your luck is bad,
          An' that your life is extry sad;
          Your life ain't sadder than your neighbor's
          Nor any harder are your labors;
          It rains on him the same as you,
          An' he has work he hates to do;
          An' he gits tired an' he gits cross,
          An' he has trouble with the boss;
          You take his whole life, through an' through,
          Why, he's no better off than you.

          If whinin' brushed the clouds away
          I wouldn't have a word to say;
          If it made good friends out o' foes
          I'd whine a bit, too, I suppose;
          But when I look around an' see
          A lot o' men resemblin' me,
          An' see 'em sad, an' see 'em gay
          With work t' do most every day,
          Some full o' fun, some bent with care,
          Some havin' troubles hard to bear,
          I reckon, as I count my woes,
          They're 'bout what everybody knows.

          The day I find a man who'll say
          He's never known a rainy day,
          Who'll raise his right hand up an' swear
          In forty years he's had no care,
          Has never had a single blow,
          An' never known one touch o' woe,
          Has never seen a loved one die,
          Has never wept or heaved a sigh,
          Has never had a plan go wrong,
          But allus laughed his way along;
          Then I'll sit down an' start to whine
          That all the hard luck here is mine.

          Vacation time! How glad it seemed
          When as a boy I sat and dreamed
          Above my school books, of the fun
          That I should claim when toil was done;
          And, Oh, how oft my youthful eye
          Went wandering with the patch of sky
          That drifted by the window panes
          O'er pleasant fields and dusty lanes,
          Where I would race and romp and shout
          The very moment school was out.
          My artful little fingers then
          Feigned labor with the ink and pen,
          But heart and mind were far away,
          Engaged in some glad bit of play.
          The last two weeks dragged slowly by;
          Time hadn't then learned how to fly.
          It seemed the clock upon the wall
          From hour to hour could only crawl,
          And when the teacher called my name,
          Unto my cheeks the crimson came,
          For I could give no answer clear
          To questions that I didn't hear.
          "Wool gathering, were you?" oft she said
          And smiled to see me blushing red.
          Her voice had roused me from a dream
          Where I was fishing in a stream,
          And, if I now recall it right,
          Just at the time I had a bite.

          And now my youngsters dream of play
          In just the very selfsame way;
          And they complain that time is slow
          And that the term will never go.
          Their little minds with plans are filled
          For joyous hours they soon will build,
          And it is vain for me to say,
          That have grown old and wise and gray,
          That time is swift, and joy is brief;
          They'll put no faith in such belief.
          To youthful hearts that long for play
          Time is a laggard on the way.
          'Twas, Oh, so slow to me back then
          Ere I had learned the ways of men!

          Every night she runs to me
          With a bandaged arm or a bandaged knee,
          A stone-bruised heel or a swollen brow,
          And in sorrowful tones she tells me how
          She fell and "hurted herse'f to-day"
          While she was having the "bestest play."

          And I take her up in my arms and kiss
          The new little wounds and whisper this:
          "Oh, you must be careful, my little one,
          You mustn't get hurt while your daddy's gone,
          For every cut with its ache and smart
          Leaves another bruise on your daddy's heart."

          Every night I must stoop to see
          The fresh little cuts on her arm or knee;
          The little hurts that have marred her play,
          And brought the tears on a happy day;
          For the path of childhood is oft beset
          With care and trouble and things that fret.

          Oh, little girl, when you older grow,
          Far greater hurts than these you'll know;
          Greater bruises will bring your tears,
          Around the bend of the lane of years,
          But come to your daddy with them at night
          And he'll do his best to make all things right.

          Adown the lanes of memory bloom all the flowers of yesteryear,
          And looking back we smile to see life's bright red roses reappear,
          The little sprigs of mignonette that smiled upon us as we passed,
          The pansy and the violet, too sweet, we thought those days, to last.

          The gentle mother by the door caresses still her lilac blooms,
          And as we wander back once more we seem to smell the old perfumes,
          We seem to live again the joys that once were ours so long ago
          When we were little girls and boys, with all the charms we used to know.

          But living things grow old and fade; the dead in memory remain,
          In all their splendid youth arrayed, exempt from suffering and pain;
          The little babe God called away, so many, many years ago,
          Is still a little babe to-day, and I am glad that this is so.

          Time has not changed the joys we knew; the summer rains or winter snows
          Have failed to harm the wondrous hue of any dew-kissed bygone rose;
          In memory 'tis still as fair as when we plucked it for our own,
          And we can see it blooming there, if anything more lovely grown.

          Adown the lanes of memory bloom all the joys of yesteryear,
          And God has given you and me the power to make them reappear;
          For we can settle back at night and live again the joys we knew
          And taste once more the old delight of days when all our skies were blue.