Just Folks Part 6

The Pathway of the Living

The pathway of the living is our ever-present care.

Let us do our best to smooth it and to make it bright and fair; Let us travel it with kindness, let's be careful as we tread, And give unto the living what we'd offer to the dead.

The pathway of the living we can beautify and grace; We can line it deep with roses and make earth a happier place.

But we've done all mortals can do, when our prayers are softly said For the souls of those that travel o'er the pathway of the dead.

The pathway of the living all our strength and courage needs, There we ought to sprinkle favors, there we ought to sow our deeds, There our smiles should be the brightest, there our kindest words be said, For the angels have the keeping of the pathway of the dead.

Lemon Pie

The world is full of gladness, There are joys of many kinds, There's a cure for every sadness, That each troubled mortal finds.

And my little cares grow lighter And I cease to fret and sigh, And my eyes with joy grow brighter When she makes a lemon pie.

When the bronze is on the filling That's one ma.s.s of s.h.i.+ning gold, And its molten joy is spilling On the plate, my heart grows bold And the kids and I in chorus Raise one glad exultant cry And we cheer the treat before us Which is mother's lemon pie.

Then the little troubles vanish, And the sorrows disappear, Then we find the grit to banish All the cares that hovered near, And we smack our lips in pleasure O'er a joy no coin can buy, And we down the golden treasure Which is known as lemon pie.

The Flag on the Farm

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 pa.s.ser-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 s.h.i.+rking 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 s.h.i.+ne 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!"

Heroes

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 n.o.bly 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.

The Mother's Question

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."

The Blue Flannel s.h.i.+rt

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 fas.h.i.+on will cease to a.s.sert What I must put on every morning-- The days of the blue flannel s.h.i.+rt.

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 s.h.i.+rt.

You can brag all you like of your fas.h.i.+ons, 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 s.h.i.+rt.

Grandpa

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.