Just Folks Part 14

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

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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.ses by.

It seems to me I'm sitting in that high-backed pew, the while The minister is preaching in that good old-fas.h.i.+oned 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d'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

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.

The Lure That Failed

I know a wonderful land, I said, Where the skies are always blue, Where on chocolate drops are the children fed, And cocoanut cookies, too; Where puppy dogs romp at the children's feet, And the liveliest kittens play, And little tin soldiers guard the street To frighten the bears away.

This land is reached by a wonderful s.h.i.+p That sails on a golden tide; But never a grown-up makes the trip-- It is only a children's ride.

And never a cross-patch journeys there, And never a pouting face, For it is the Land of Smiling, where A frown is a big disgrace.

Oh, you board the s.h.i.+p when the sun goes down, And over a gentle sea You slip away from the noisy town To the land of the chocolate tree.

And there, till the sun comes over the hill, You frolic and romp and play, And of candy and cake you eat your fill, With no one to tell you "Nay!"

So come! It is time for the s.h.i.+p to go To this wonderful land so fair, And gently the summer breezes blow To carry you safely there.

So come! Set sail on this golden sea, To the land that is free from dread!

"I know what you mean," she said to me, "An' I don't wanna go to bed."

The Old-Fas.h.i.+oned Thanksgiving

It may be I am getting old and like too much to dwell Upon the days of bygone years, the days I loved so well; But thinking of them now I wish somehow that I could know A simple old Thanksgiving Day, like those of long ago, When all the family gathered round a table richly spread, With little Jamie at the foot and grandpa at the head, The youngest of us all to greet the oldest with a smile, With mother running in and out and laughing all the while.

It may be I'm old-fas.h.i.+oned, but it seems to me to-day We're too much bent on having fun to take the time to pray; Each little family grows up with fas.h.i.+ons of its own; It lives within a world itself and wants to be alone.

It has its special pleasures, its circle, too, of friends; There are no get-together days; each one his journey wends, Pursuing what he likes the best in his particular way, Letting the others do the same upon Thanksgiving Day.

I like the olden way the best, when relatives were glad To meet the way they used to do when I was but a lad; The old home was a rendezvous for all our kith and kin, And whether living far or near they all came trooping in With shouts of "h.e.l.lo, daddy!" as they fairly stormed the place And made a rush for mother, who would stop to wipe her face Upon her gingham ap.r.o.n before she kissed them all, Hugging them proudly to her breast, the grownups and the small.

Then laughter rang throughout the home, and, Oh, the jokes they told; From Boston, Frank brought new ones, but father sprang the old; All afternoon we chatted, telling what we hoped to do, The struggles we were making and the hards.h.i.+ps we'd gone through; We gathered round the fireside. How fast the hours would fly-- It seemed before we'd settled down 'twas time to say good-bye.

Those were the glad Thanksgivings, the old-time families knew When relatives could still be friends and every heart was true.

The Old-Fas.h.i.+oned Pair

'Tis a little old house with a squeak in the stairs, And a porch that seems made for just two easy chairs; In the yard is a group of geraniums red, And a glorious old-fas.h.i.+oned peony bed.

Petunias and pansies and larkspurs are there Proclaiming their love for the old-fas.h.i.+oned pair.

Oh, it's hard now to picture the peace of the place!

Never lovelier smile lit a fair woman's face Than the smile of the little old lady who sits On the porch through the bright days of summer and knits.

And a courtlier manner no prince ever had Than the little old man that she speaks of as "dad."

In that little old house there is nothing of hate; There are old-fas.h.i.+oned things by an old-fas.h.i.+oned grate; On the walls there are pictures of fine looking men And beautiful ladies to look at, and then Time has placed on the mantel to comfort them there The pictures of grandchildren, radiantly fair.

Every part of the house seems to whisper of joy, Save the trinkets that speak of a lost little boy.

Yet Time has long since soothed the hurt and the pain, And his glorious memories only remain: The laughter of children the old walls have known, And the joy of it stays, though the babies have flown.

I am fond of that house and that old-fas.h.i.+oned pair And the glorious calm that is hovering there.

The riches of life are not silver and gold But fine sons and daughters when we are grown old, And I pray when the years shall have silvered our hair We shall know the delights of that old-fas.h.i.+oned pair.

At Pelletier's

We've been out to Pelletier's Brus.h.i.+ng off the stain of years, Quitting all the moods of men And been boys and girls again.

We have romped through orchards blazing, Petted ponies gently grazing, Hidden in the hayloft's s.p.a.ces, And the queerest sort of places That are lost (and it's a pity!) To the youngsters in the city.

And the hired men have let us Drive their teams, and stopped to get us Apples from the trees, and lingered While a cow's cool nose we fingered; And they told us all about her And her grandpa who was stouter.

We've been out to Pelletier's Watching horses raise their ears, And their joyous whinnies hearing When the man with oats was nearing.