Just Folks Part 20

G.o.d sends me the gray days and rare, The threads from his bountiful skein, And many, as suns.h.i.+ne, are fair.

And some are as dark as the rain.

And I think as I toil to express My life through the days slipping by, Shall my tapestry prove a success?

What sort of a weaver am I?

Am I making the most of the red And the bright strands of luminous gold?

Or blotting them out with the thread By which all men's failure is told?

Am I picturing life as despair, As a thing men shall shudder to see, Or weaving a bit that is fair That shall stand as the record of me?

The Few

The easy roads are crowded And the level roads are jammed; The pleasant little rivers With the drifting folks are crammed.

But off yonder where it's rocky, Where you get a better view, You will find the ranks are thinning And the travelers are few.

Where the going's smooth and pleasant You will always find the throng, For the many, more's the pity, Seem to like to drift along.

But the steeps that call for courage, And the task that's hard to do In the end result in glory For the never-wavering few.

Real Swimming

I saw him in the distance, as the train went speeding by, A s.h.i.+very little fellow standing in the sun to dry.

And a little pile of clothing very near him I could see: He was owner of a gladness that had once belonged to me.

I have s.h.i.+vered as he s.h.i.+vered, I have dried the way he dried, I've stood naked in G.o.d's suns.h.i.+ne with my garments at my side; And I thought as I beheld him, of the many weary men Who would like to go in swimming as a little boy again.

I saw him scarce a moment, yet I knew his lips were blue And I knew his teeth were chattering just as mine were wont to do; And I knew his merry playmates in the pond were splas.h.i.+ng still; I could tell how much he envied all the boys that never chill; And throughout that lonesome journey, I kept living o'er and o'er The joys of going swimming when no bathing suits we wore; I was with that little fellow, standing chattering in the sun; I was sharing in his s.h.i.+vers and a partner of his fun.

Back to me there came the pictures that I never shall forget When I dared not travel homewards if my shock of hair was wet, When I did my brief undressing under fine and friendly trees In the days before convention rigged us up in b.v.d's.

And I dived for stones and metal on the mill pond's muddy floor, Then stood naked in the suns.h.i.+ne till my blood grew warm once more.

I was back again, a youngster, in those golden days of old, When my teeth were wont to chatter and my lips were blue with cold.

The Love of the Game

There is too much of sighing, and weaving Of pitiful tales of despair.

There is too much of wailing and grieving, And too much of railing at care.

There is far too much glorification Of money and pleasure and fame; But I sing the joy of my station, And I sing the love of my game.

There is too much of tremble-lip telling Of hurts that have come with the fight.

There is too much of pitiful dwelling On plans that have failed to go right.

There is too much of envious pining For luxuries others may claim.

Too much thought of wining and dining, But I sing the love of my game.

There is too much of grim magnifying The troubles that come with the day, There is too much indifferent trying To travel a care-beset way.

Too much do men think of gold-getting, Too much have they underwrit shame, Which accounts for the frowning and fretting, But I sing the joy of my game.

Let's get back to the work we are doing; Let us reckon its joys and its pain; Let us pause while our tasks we're reviewing, To sum up the cost of each gain.

Let us give up our whining and wailing Because of the bruises that maim, And battle the chances of failing As being a part of the game.

Let us care more for serving than winning, Let us look at our woes as they are; It is time now that we were beginning To be less afraid of a scar.

Let us cease in our glorification Of money and pleasure and fame, And find, whatsoe'er be our station, Our joy in the love of the game.

Roses and Suns.h.i.+ne

Rough is the road I am journeying now, Heavy the burden I'm bearing to-day; But I'm humming a song, as I wander along, And I smile at the roses that nod by the way.

Red roses sweet, Blooming there at my feet, Just dripping with honey and perfume and cheer; What a weakling I'd be If I tried not to see The joy and the comfort you bring to us here.

Just tramping along o'er the highway of life, Knowing not what's ahead but still doing my best; And I sing as I go, for my soul seems to know In the end I shall come to the valley of rest.

With the sun in my face And the roses to grace The roads that I travel, what have I to fear?

What a coward I'd be If I tried not to see The roses of hope and the suns.h.i.+ne of cheer.