Just Folks

          I hold no dream of fortune vast,
            Nor seek undying fame.
          I do not ask when life is past
            That many know my name.

          I may not own the skill to rise
            To glory's topmost height,
          Nor win a place among the wise,
            But I can keep the right.

          And I can live my life on earth
            Contented to the end,
          If but a few shall know my worth
            And proudly call me friend.

          Would you sell your boy for a stack of gold?
          Would you miss that hand that is yours to hold?
          Would you take a fortune and never see
          The man, in a few brief years, he'll be?
          Suppose that his body were racked with pain,
          How much would you pay for his health again?

          Is there money enough in the world to-day
          To buy your boy? Could a monarch pay
          You silver and gold in so large a sum
          That you'd have him blinded or stricken dumb?
          How much would you take, if you had the choice,
          Never to hear, in this world, his voice?

          How much would you take in exchange for all
          The joy that is wrapped in that youngster small?
          Are there diamonds enough in the mines of earth
          To equal your dreams of that youngster's worth?
          Would you give up the hours that he's on your knee
          The richest man in the world to be?

          You may prate of gold, but your fortune lies,
          And you know it well, in your boy's bright eyes.
          And there's nothing that money can buy or do
          That means so much as that boy to you.
          Well, which does the most of your time employ,
          The chase for gold—or that splendid boy?

          You may brag about your breakfast foods you eat at break of day,
          Your crisp, delightful shavings and your stack of last year's hay,
          Your toasted flakes of rye and corn that fairly swim in cream,
          Or rave about a sawdust mash, an epicurean dream.
          But none of these appeals to me, though all of them I've tried—
          The breakfast that I liked the best was sausage mother fried.

          Old country sausage was its name; the kind, of course, you know,
          The little links that seemed to be almost as white as snow,
          But turned unto a ruddy brown, while sizzling in the pan;
          Oh, they were made both to appease and charm the inner man.
          All these new-fangled dishes make me blush and turn aside,
          When I think about the sausage that for breakfast mother fried.

          When they roused me from my slumbers and I left to do the chores,
          It wasn't long before I breathed a fragrance out of doors
          That seemed to grip my spirit, and to thrill my body through,
          For the spice of hunger tingled, and 'twas then I plainly knew
          That the gnawing at my stomach would be quickly satisfied
          By a plate of country sausage that my dear old mother fried.

          There upon the kitchen table, with its cloth of turkey red,
          Was a platter heaped with sausage and a plate of home-made bread,
          And a cup of coffee waiting—not a puny demitasse
          That can scarcely hold a mouthful, but a cup of greater class;
          And I fell to eating largely, for I could not be denied—
          Oh, I'm sure a king would relish the sausage mother fried.

          Times have changed and so have breakfasts; now each morning when I see
          A dish of shredded something or of flakes passed up to me,
          All my thoughts go back to boyhood, to the days of long ago,
          When the morning meal meant something more than vain and idle show.
          And I hunger, Oh, I hunger, in a way I cannot hide,
          For a plate of steaming sausage like the kind my mother fried.

          Ain't it fine when things are going
            Topsy-turvy and askew
          To discover someone showing
            Good old-fashioned faith in you?

          Ain't it good when life seems dreary
            And your hopes about to end,
          Just to feel the handclasp cheery
            Of a fine old loyal friend?

          Gosh! one fellow to another
            Means a lot from day to day,
          Seems we're living for each other
            In a friendly sort of way.

          When a smile or cheerful greetin'
            Means so much to fellows sore,
          Seems we ought to keep repeatin'
            Smiles an' praises more an' more.

          In some respects the old days were perhaps ahead of these,
          Before we got to wanting wealth and costly luxuries;
          Perhaps the world was happier then, I'm not the one to say,
          But when it's zero weather I am glad I live to-day.

          Old-fashioned winters I recall—the winters of my youth—
          I have no great desire for them to-day, I say in truth;
          The frost upon the window panes was beautiful to see,
          But the chill upon that bedroom floor was not a joy to me.

          I do not now recall that it was fun in those days when
          I woke to learn the water pipes were frozen tight "again."
          To win once more the old-time joys, I don't believe I'd care
          To have to sleep, for comfort's sake, dressed in my underwear.

          Old-fashioned winters had their charms, a fact I can't deny,
          But after all I'm really glad that they have wandered by;
          We used to tumble out of bed, like firemen, I declare,
          And grab our clothes and hike down stairs and finish dressing there.

          Yes, brag about those days of old, boast of them as you will,
          I sing the modern methods that have robbed them of their chill;
          I sing the cheery steam pipe and the upstairs snug and warm
          And a spine that's free from shivers as I robe my manly form.

          Some day the world will need a man of courage in a time of doubt,
          And somewhere, as a little boy, that future hero plays about.
          Within some humble home, no doubt, that instrument of greater things
          Now climbs upon his father's knee or to his mother's garments clings.
          And when shall come that call for him to render service that is fine,
          He that shall do God's mission here may be your little boy or mine.

          Long years of preparation mark the pathway for the splendid souls,
          And generations live and die and seem no nearer to their goals,
          And yet the purpose of it all, the fleeting pleasure and the woe,
          The laughter and the grief of life that all who come to earth must know
          May be to pave the way for one—one man to serve the Will Divine
          And it is possible that he may be your little boy or mine.

          Some day the world will need a man! I stand beside his cot at night
          And wonder if I'm teaching him, as best I can, to know the right.
          I am the father of a boy—his life is mine to make or mar—
          And he no better can become than what my daily teachings are;
          There will be need for someone great—I dare not falter from the line—
          The man that is to serve the world may be that little boy of mine.

          Perhaps your boy and mine may not ascend the lofty heights of fame;
          The orders for their births are hid. We know not why to earth they came.
          Yet in some little bed to-night the great man of to-morrow sleeps
          And only He who sent him here, the secret of his purpose keeps.
          As fathers then our care is this—to keep in mind the Great Design.
          The man the world shall need some day may be your little boy or mine.

          I like 'em, in the winter when their cheeks are slightly pale,
          I like 'em in the spring time when the March winds blow a gale;
          But when summer suns have tanned 'em and they're racing to and fro,
          I somehow think the children make the finest sort of show.

          When they're brown as little berries and they're bare of foot and head,
          And they're on the go each minute where the velvet lawns are spread,
          Then their health is at its finest and they never stop to rest,
          Oh, it's then I think the children look and are their very best.

          We've got to know the winter and we've got to know the spring,
          But for children, could I do it, unto summer I would cling;
          For I'm happiest when I see 'em, as a wild and merry band
          Of healthy, lusty youngsters that the summer sun has tanned.

          Days are gettin' shorter an' the air a keener snap;
          Apples now are droppin' into Mother Nature's lap;
          The mist at dusk is risin' over valley, marsh an' fen
          An' it's just as plain as sunshine, winter's comin' on again.

          The turkeys now are struttin' round the old farmhouse once more;
          They are done with all their nestin', and their hatchin' days are o'er;
          Now the farmer's cuttin' fodder for the silo towerin' high
          An' he's frettin' an' complainin' 'cause the corn's a bit too dry.

          But the air is mighty peaceful an' the scene is good to see,
          An' there's somethin' in October that stirs deep inside o' me;
          An' I just can't help believin' in a God above us, when
          Everything is ripe for harvest an the frost is back again.

          How much grit do you think you've got?
          Can you quit a thing that you like a lot?
          You may talk of pluck; it's an easy word,
          And where'er you go it is often heard;
          But can you tell to a jot or guess
          Just how much courage you now possess?

          You may stand to trouble and keep your grin,
          But have you tackled self-discipline?
          Have you ever issued commands to you
          To quit the things that you like to do,
          And then, when tempted and sorely swayed,
          Those rigid orders have you obeyed?

          Don't boast of your grit till you've tried it out,
          Nor prate to men of your courage stout,
          For it's easy enough to retain a grin
          In the face of a fight there's a chance to win,
          But the sort of grit that is good to own
          Is the stuff you need when you're all alone.

          How much grit do you think you've got?
          Can you turn from joys that you like a lot?
          Have you ever tested yourself to know
          How far with yourself your will can go?
          If you want to know if you have grit,
          Just pick out a joy that you like, and quit.

          It's bully sport and it's open fight;
          It will keep you busy both day and night;
          For the toughest kind of a game you'll find
          Is to make your body obey your mind.
          And you never will know what is meant by grit
          Unless there's something you've tried to quit.

          Nobody stops at the rich man's door to pass the time of day.
          Nobody shouts a "hello!" to him in the good old-fashioned way.
          Nobody comes to his porch at night and sits in that extra chair
          And talks till it's time to go to bed. He's all by himself up there.

          Nobody just happens in to call on the long, cold winter nights.
          Nobody feels that he's welcome now, though the house is ablaze with lights.
          And never an unexpected guest will tap at his massive door
          And stay to tea as he used to do, for his neighborly days are o'er.

          It's a distant life that the rich man leads and many an hour is glum,
          For never the neighbors call on him save when they are asked to come.
          At heart he is just as he used to be and he longs for his friends of old,
          But they never will venture unbidden there. They're afraid of his wall of gold.

          For silver and gold in a large amount there's a price that all men must pay,
          And who will dwell in a rich man's house must live in a lonely way.
          For once you have builded a fortune vast you will sigh for the friends you knew
          But never they'll tap at your door again in the way that they used to do.

          Whose luck is better far than ours?
              The other fellow's.
          Whose road seems always lined with flowers?
              The other fellow's.
          Who is the man who seems to get
          Most joy in life, with least regret,
          Who always seems to win his bet?
              The other fellow.

          Who fills the place we think we'd like?
              The other fellow.
          Whom does good fortune always strike?
              The other fellow.
          Whom do we envy, day by day?
          Who has more time than we to play?
          Who is it, when we mourn, seems gay?
              The other fellow.

          Who seems to miss the thorns we find?
              The other fellow.
          Who seems to leave us all behind?
              The other fellow.
          Who never seems to feel the woe,
          The anguish and the pain we know?
          Who gets the best seats at the show?
              The other fellow.

          And yet, my friend, who envies you?
              The other fellow.
          Who thinks he gathers only rue?
              The other fellow.
          Who sighs because he thinks that he
          Would infinitely happier he,
          If he could be like you or me?
              The other fellow.

          There in the flame of the open grate,
            All that is good in the past I see:
          Red-lipped youth on the swinging gate,
            Bright-eyed youth with its minstrelsy;
              Girls and boys that I used to know,
              Back in the days of Long Ago,
          Troop before in the smoke and flame,
            Chatter and sing, as the wild birds do.
          Everyone I can call by name,
            For the fire builds all of my youth anew.

          Outside, people go stamping by,
            Squeak of wheel on the evening air,
          Stars and planets race through the sky,
            Here are darkness and silence rare;
              Only the flames in the open grate
              Crackle and flare as they burn up hate,
          Malice and envy and greed for gold,
            Dancing, laughing my cares away;
          I've forgotten that I am old,
            Once again I'm a boy at play.

          There in the flame of the open grate
            Bright the pictures come and go;
          Lovers swing on the garden gate,
            Lovers kiss 'neath the mistletoe.
              I've forgotten that I am old,
              I've forgotten my story's told;
          Whistling boy down the lane I stroll,
            All untouched by the blows of fate,
          Time turns back and I'm young of soul,
            Dreaming there by the open grate.

          The joy of life is living it, or so it seems to me;
          In finding shackles on your wrists, then struggling till you're free;
          In seeing wrongs and righting them, in dreaming splendid dreams,
          Then toiling till the vision is as real as moving streams.
          The happiest mortal on the earth is he who ends his day
          By leaving better than he found to bloom along the way.

          Were all things perfect here there would be naught for man to do;
          If what is old were good enough we'd never need the new.
          The only happy time of rest is that which follows strife
          And sees some contribution made unto the joy of life.
          And he who has oppression felt and conquered it is he
          Who really knows the happiness and peace of being free.

          The miseries of earth are here and with them all must cope.
          Who seeks for joy, through hedges thick of care and pain must grope.
          Through disappointment man must go to value pleasure's thrill;
          To really know the joy of health a man must first be ill.
          The wrongs are here for man to right, and happiness is had
          By striving to supplant with good the evil and the bad.

          The joy of life is living it and doing things of worth,
          In making bright and fruitful all the barren spots of earth.
          In facing odds and mastering them and rising from defeat,
          And making true what once was false, and what was bitter, sweet.
          For only he knows perfect joy whose little bit of soil
          Is richer ground than what it was when he began to toil.

          Send her a valentine to say
          You love her in the same old way.
          Just drop the long familiar ways
          And live again the old-time days
          When love was new and youth was bright
          And all was laughter and delight,
          And treat her as you would if she
          Were still the girl that used to be.

          Pretend that all the years have passed
          Without one cold and wintry blast;
          That you are coming still to woo
          Your sweetheart as you used to do;
          Forget that you have walked along
          The paths of life where right and wrong
          And joy and grief in battle are,
          And play the heart without a scar.

          Be what you were when youth was fine
          And send to her a valentine;
          Forget the burdens and the woe
          That have been given you to know
          And to the wife, so fond and true,
          The pledges of the past renew
          'Twill cure her life of every ill
          To find that you're her sweetheart still.

          Who is it lives to the full every minute,
          Gets all the joy and the fun that is in it?
          Tough as they make 'em, and ready to race,
          Fit for a battle and fit for a chase,
          Heedless of buttons on blouses and pants,
          Laughing at danger and taking a chance,
          Gladdest, it seems, when he wallows in mud,
          Who is the rascal? I'll tell you, it's Bud!

          Who is it wakes with a shout of delight,
          And comes to our room with a smile that is bright?
          Who is it springs into bed with a leap
          And thinks it is queer that his dad wants to sleep?
          Who answers his growling with laughter and tries
          His patience by lifting the lids of his eyes?
          Who jumps in the air and then lands with a thud
          On his poor daddy's stomach? I'll tell you, it's Bud!

          Who is it thinks life is but laughter and play
          And doesn't know care is a part of the day?
          Who is reckless of stockings and heedless of shoes?
          Who laughs at a tumble and grins at a bruise?
          Who climbs over fences and clambers up trees,
          And scrapes all the skin off his shins and his knees?
          Who sometimes comes home all bespattered with blood
          That was drawn by a fall? It's that rascal called Bud.

          Yet, who is it makes all our toiling worth while?
          Who can cure every ache that we know, by his smile?
          Who is prince to his mother and king to his dad
          And makes us forget that we ever were sad?
          Who is center of all that we dream of and plan,
          Our baby to-day but to-morrow our man?
          It's that tough little, rough little tyke in the mud,
          That tousled-haired, fun-loving rascal called Bud!

          When I was but a little lad I always liked to ride,
          No matter what the rig we had, right by the driver's side.
          The front seat was the honor place in bob-sleigh, coach or hack,
          And I maneuvered to avoid the cushions in the back.
          We children used to scramble then to share the driver's seat,
          And long the pout I wore when I was not allowed that treat.
          Though times have changed and I am old I still confess I race
          With other grown-ups now and then to get my favorite place.

          The auto with its cushions fine and big and easy springs
          Has altered in our daily lives innumerable things,
          But hearts of men are still the same as what they used to be,
          When surreys were the stylish rigs, or so they seem to me,
          For every grown-up girl to-day and every grown-up boy
          Still hungers for the seat in front and scrambles for its joy,
          And riding by the driver's side still holds the charm it did
          In those glad, youthful days gone by when I was just a kid.

          I hurry, as I used to do, to claim that favorite place,
          And when a tonneau seat is mine I wear a solemn face.
          I try to hide the pout I feel, and do my best to smile,
          But envy of the man in front gnaws at me all the while.
          I want to be where I can see the road that lies ahead,
          To watch the trees go flying by and see the country spread
          Before me as we spin along, for there I miss the fear
          That seems to grip the soul of me while riding in the rear.

          And I am not alone in this. To-day I drive a car
          And three glad youngsters madly strive to share the "seat with Pa."
          And older folks that ride with us, I very plainly see,
          Maneuver in their artful ways to sit in front with me;
          Though all the cushions in the world were piled up in the rear,
          The child in all of us still longs to watch the engineer.
          And happier hearts we seem to own when we're allowed to ride,
          No matter what the car may be, close by the driver's side.

          There are no gods that bring to youth
            The rich rewards that stalwarts claim;
          The god of fortune is in truth
            A vision and an empty name.
          The toiler who through doubt and care
            Unto his goal and victory plods,
          With no one need his glory share:
            He is himself his favoring gods.

          There are no gods that will bestow
            Earth's joys and blessings on a man.
          Each one must choose the path he'll go,
            Then win from it what joy he can.
          And he that battles with the odds
            Shall know success, but he who waits
          The favors of the mystic gods,
            Shall never come to glory's gates.

          No man is greater than his will;
            No gods to him will lend a hand!
          Upon his courage and his skill
            The record of his life must stand.
          What honors shall befall to him,
            What he shall claim of fame or pelf,
          Depend not on the favoring whim
            Of fortune's god, but on himself.

          An auto is a helpful thing;
          I love the way the motor hums,
          I love each cushion and each spring,
          The way it goes, the way it comes;
          It saves me many a dreary mile,
          It brings me quickly to the smile
          Of those at home, and every day
          It adds unto my time for play.

          It keeps me with my friends in touch;
          No journey now appears too much
          To make with meetings at the end:
          It gives me time to be a friend.
          It laughs at distance, and has power
          To lengthen every fleeting hour.
          It bears me into country new
          That otherwise I'd never view.

          It's swift and sturdy and it strives
          To fill with happiness our lives;
          When for the doctor we've a need
          It brings him to our door with speed.
          It saves us hours of anxious care
          And heavy heartache and despair.
          It has its faults, but still I sing:
          The auto is a helpful thing.

          The handy man about the house
          Is old and bent and gray;
          Each morning in the yard he toils,
          Where all the children play;
          Some new task every day he finds,
          Some task he loves to do,
          The handy man about the house,
          Whose work is never through.

          The children stand to see him toil,
          And watch him mend a chair;
          They bring their broken toys to him
          He keeps them in repair.
          No idle moment Grandpa spends,
          But finds some work to do,
          And hums a snatch of some old song,
          That in his youth he knew.

          He builds with wood most wondrous things:
          A table for the den,
          A music rack to please the girls,
          A gun case for the men.
          And 'midst his paints and tools he smiles,
          And seems as young and gay
          As any of the little ones
          Who round him run in play.

          I stopped to speak with him awhile;
          "Oh, tell me, Grandpa, pray,"
          I said, "why do you work so hard
          Throughout the livelong day?
          Your hair is gray, your back is bent,
          With weight of years oppressed;
          This is the evening of your life—
          Why don't you sit and rest?"

          "Ah, no," the old man answered me,
          "Although I'm old and gray,
          I like to work out here where I
          Can watch the children play.
          The old have tasks that they must do;
          The greatest of my joys
          Is working on this shaded porch,
          And mending children's toys."

          And as I wandered on, I thought,
          Oh, shall I lonely be
          When time has powdered white my hair,
          And left his mark on me?
          Will little children round me play,
          Shall I have work to do?
          Or shall I be, when age is mine,
          Lonely and useless too?

          The old days, the old days, how oft the poets sing,
          The days of hope at dewy morn, the days of early spring,
          The days when every mead was fair, and every heart was true,
          And every maiden wore a smile, and every sky was blue
          The days when dreams were golden and every night brought rest,
          The old, old days of youth and love, the days they say were best
          But I—I sing the new days, the days that lie before,
          The days of hope and fancy, the days that I adore.

          The new days, the new days, the selfsame days they are;
          The selfsame sunshine heralds them, the selfsame evening star
          Shines out to light them on their way unto the Bygone Land,
          And with the selfsame arch of blue the world to-day is spanned.
          The new days, the new days, when friends are just as true,
          And maidens smile upon us all, the way they used to do,
          Dreams we know are golden dreams, hope springs in every breast;
          It cheers us in the dewy morn and soothes us when we rest.

          The new days, the new days, of them I want to sing,
          The new days with the fancies and the golden dreams they bring;
          The old days had their pleasures, but likewise have the new
          The gardens with their roses and the meadows bright with dew;
          We love to-day the selfsame way they loved in days of old;
          The world is bathed in beauty and it isn't growing cold;
          There's joy for us a-plenty, there are tasks for us to do,
          And life is worth the living, for the friends we know are true.

          Joy stands on the hilltops,
            Beckoning to me,
          Urging me to journey
            Up where I can see
          Blue skies ever smiling,
            Cool green fields below,
          Hear the songs of children
            Still untouched by woe.

          Joy stands on the hilltops,
            Urging me to stay,
          Spite of toil and trouble,
            To life's rugged way,
          Holding out a promise
            Of a life serene
          When the steeps I've mastered
            Lying now between.

          Joy stands on the hilltops,
            Smiling down at me,
          Urging me to clamber
            Up where I can see
          Over toil and trouble
            Far beyond despair,
          And I answer smiling:
            Some day I'll be there.

          Songs of rejoicin',
            Of love and of cheer,
          Are the songs that I'm yearnin' for
            Year after year.
          The songs about children
            Who laugh in their glee
          Are the songs worth the singin',
            The bright songs for me.

          Songs of rejoicin',
            Of kisses and love,
          Of faith in the Father,
            Who sends from above
          The sunbeams to scatter
            The gloom and the fear;
          These songs worth the singin',
            The songs of good cheer.

          Songs of rejoicin',
            Oh, sing them again,
          The brave songs of courage
            Appealing to men.
          Of hope in the future
            Of heaven the goal;
          The songs of rejoicin'
            That strengthen the soul.

          We've got another mouth to feed,
            From out our little store;
          To satisfy another's need
            Is now my daily chore.
          A growing family is ours,
            Beyond the slightest doubt;
          It takes all my financial powers
            To keep them looking stout.
          With us another makes his bow
            To breakfast, dine and sup;
          Our little circle's larger now,
            For Buddy's got a pup.

          If I am frayed about the heels
            And both my elbows shine
          And if my overcoat reveals
            The poverty that's mine,
          'Tis not because I squander gold
            In folly's reckless way;
          The cost of foodstuffs, be it told,
            Takes all my weekly pay.
          'Tis putting food on empty plates
            That eats my wages up;
          And now another mouth awaits,
            For Buddy's got a pup.

          And yet I gladly stand the strain,
            And count the task worth while,
          Nor will I dismally complain
            While Buddy wears a smile.
          What's one mouth more at any board
            Though costly be the fare?
          The poorest of us can afford
            His frugal meal to share.
          And so bring on the extra plate,
            He will not need a cup,
          And gladly will I pay the freight
            Now Buddy's got a pup.

          The little church of Long Ago, where as a boy I sat
          With mother in the family pew and fumbled with my hat—
          How I would like to see it now the way I saw it then,
          The straight-backed pews, the pulpit high, the women and the men
          Dressed stiffly in their Sunday clothes and solemnly devout,
          Who closed their eyes when prayers were said and never looked about—
          That little church of Long Ago, it wasn't grand to see,
          But even as a little boy it meant a lot to me.

          The choir loft where father sang comes back to me again;
          I hear his tenor voice once more the way I heard it when
          The deacons used to pass the plate, and once again I see
          The people fumbling for their coins, as glad as they could be
          To drop their quarters on the plate, and I'm a boy once more
          With my two pennies in my fist that mother gave before
          We left the house, and once again I'm reaching out to try
          To drop them on the plate before the deacon passes by.

          It seems to me I'm sitting in that high-backed pew, the while
          The minister is preaching in that good old-fashioned style;
          And though I couldn't understand it all somehow I know
          The Bible was the text book in that church of Long Ago;
          He didn't preach on politics, but used the word of God,
          And even now I seem to see the people gravely nod,
          As though agreeing thoroughly with all he had to say,
          And then I see them thanking him before they go away.

          The little church of Long Ago was not a structure huge,
          It had no hired singers or no other subterfuge
          To get the people to attend, 'twas just a simple place
          Where every Sunday we were told about God's saving grace;
          No men of wealth were gathered there to help it with a gift;
          The only worldly thing it had—a mortgage hard to lift.
          And somehow, dreaming here to-day, I wish that I could know
          The joy of once more sitting in that church of Long Ago.

          Sue's got a baby now, an' she
          Is like her mother used to be;
          Her face seems prettier, an' her ways
          More settled-like. In these few days
          She's changed completely, an' her smile
          Has taken on the mother-style.
          Her voice is sweeter, an' her words
          Are clear as is the song of birds.
          She still is Sue, but not the same—
          She's different since the baby came.

          There is a calm upon her face
          That marks the change that's taken place;
          It seems as though her eyes now see
          The wonder things that are to be,
          An' that her gentle hands now own
          A gentleness before unknown.
          Her laughter has a clearer ring
          Than all the bubbling of a spring,
          An' in her cheeks love's tender flame
          Glows brighter since the baby came.

          I look at her an' I can see
          Her mother as she used to be.
          How sweet she was, an' yet how much
          She sweetened by the magic touch
          That made her mother! In her face
          It seemed the angels left a trace
          Of Heavenly beauty to remain
          Where once had been the lines of pain
          An' with the baby in her arms
          Enriched her with a thousand charms.

          Sue's got a baby now an' she
          Is prettier than she used to be.
          A wondrous change has taken place,
          A softer beauty marks her face
          An' in the warmth of her caress
          There seems the touch of holiness,
          An' all the charms her mother knew
          Have blossomed once again in Sue.
          I sit an' watch her an' I claim
          My lost joys since her baby came.