Just Folks Part 8

You'd call this but a common place, But you have never seen her face.

And it was here we used to meet.

How beautiful a spot is this, To which she gayly raced to greet Her daddy with his evening kiss!

You see here nothing grand or fine, But, Oh, what memories are mine!

The people pa.s.s from day to day And never turn their heads to see The many charms along the way That mean so very much to me.

For all things here are speaking of The babe that once was mine to love.

The Little Old Man

The little old man with the curve in his back And the eyes that are dim and the skin that is slack, So slack that it wrinkles and rolls on his cheeks, With a thin little voice that goes "crack!" when he speaks, Never goes to the store but that right at his feet Are all of the youngsters who live on the street.

And the little old man in the suit that was black, And once might have perfectly fitted his back, Has a boy's chubby fist in his own wrinkled hand, And together they trudge off to Light-Hearted Land; Some splendid excursions he gives every day To the boys and the girls in his funny old way.

The little old man is as queer as can be; He'd spend all his time with a child on his knee; And the stories he tells I could never repeat, But they're always of good boys and little girls sweet; And the children come home at the end of the day To tell what the little old man had to say.

Once the little old man didn't trudge to the store, And the tap of his cane wasn't heard any more; The children looked eagerly for him each day And wondered why he didn't come out to play Till some of them saw Doctor Brown ring his bell, And they wept when they heard that he might not get well.

But after awhile he got out with his cane, And called all the children around him again; And I think as I see him go trudging along In the center, once more, of his light-hearted throng, That earth has no glory that's greater than this: The little old man whom the children would miss.

The Little Velvet Suit

Last night I got to thinkin' of the pleasant long ago, When I still had on knee breeches, an' I wore a flowing bow, An' my Sunday suit was velvet. Ma an' Pa thought it was fine, But I know I didn't like it--either velvet or design; It was far too girlish for me, for I wanted something rough Like what other boys were wearing, but Ma wouldn't buy such stuff.

Ma answered all my protests in her sweet an kindly way; She said it didn't matter what I wore to run an' play, But on Sundays when all people went to church an wore their best, Her boy must look as stylish an' as well kept as the rest.

So she dressed me up in velvet, an' she tied the flowing bow, An' she straightened out my stockings, so that not a crease would show.

An' then I chuckled softly to myself while dreaming there An' I saw her standing o'er me combing out my tangled hair.

I could feel again the tugging, an' I heard the yell I gave When she struck a snarl, an' softly I could hear her say: "Be brave.

'Twill be over in a minute, and a little man like you Shouldn't whimper at a little bit of pain the way you do."

Oh, I wouldn't mind the tugging at my scalp lock, and I know That I'd gladly wear to please her that old flowing girlish bow; And I think I'd even try to don once more that velvet suit, And blush the same old blushes, as the women called me cute, Could the dear old mother only take me by the hand again, And be as proud of me right now as she was always then.

The First Steps

Last night I held my arms to you And you held yours to mine And started out to march to me As any soldier fine.

You lifted up our little feet And laughingly advanced; And I stood there and gazed upon Your first wee steps, entranced.

You gooed and gurgled as you came Without a sign of fear; As though you knew, your journey o'er, I'd greet you with a cheer.

And, what is more, you seemed to know, Although you are so small, That I was there, with eager arms, To save you from a fall.

Three tiny steps you took, and then, Disaster and dismay!

Your over-confidence had led Your little feet astray.

You did not see what we could see Nor fear what us alarms; You stumbled, but ere you could fall I caught you in my arms.

You little tyke, in days to come You'll bravely walk alone, And you may have to wander paths Where dangers lurk unknown.

And, Oh, I pray that then, as now, When accidents befall You'll still remember that I'm near To save you from a fall.

Signs

It's "be a good boy, Willie,"

And it's "run away and play, For Santa Claus is coming With his reindeer and his sleigh."

It's "mind what mother tells you,"

And it's "put away your toys, For Santa Claus is coming To the good girls and the boys."

Ho, Santa Claus is coming, there is Christmas in the air, And little girls and little boys are good now everywhere.

World-wide the little fellows Now are sweetly saying "please,"

And "thank you," and "excuse me,"

And those little pleasantries That good children are supposed to When there's company to hear; And it's just as plain as can be That the Christmas time is near.

Ho, it's just as plain as can be that old Santa's on his way, For there are no little children that are really bad to-day.

And when evening shadows lengthen, Every little curly head Now is ready, aye, and willing To be tucked away in bed; Not one begs to stay up longer, Not one even sheds a tear; Ho, the goodness of the children Is a sign that Santa's near.

It's wonderful, the goodness of the little tots to-day, When they know that good old Santa has begun to pack his sleigh.

The Family's Homely Man

There never was a family without its homely man, With legs a little longer than the ordinary plan, An' a shock of hair that brush an' comb can't ever straighten out, An' hands that somehow never seem to know what they're about; The one with freckled features and a nose that looks as though It was fas.h.i.+oned by the youngsters from a chunk of mother's dough.

You know the man I'm thinking of, the homely one an' plain, That fairly oozes kindness like a rosebush dripping rain.

His face is never much to see, but back of it there lies A heap of love and tenderness and judgment, sound and wise.

And so I sing the homely man that's sittin' in his chair, And pray that every family will always have him there.

For looks don't count for much on earth; it's hearts that wear the gold; An' only that is ugly which is selfish, cruel, cold.

The family needs him, Oh, so much; more, maybe, than they know; Folks seldom guess a man's real worth until he has to go, But they will miss a heap of love an' tenderness the day G.o.d beckons to their homely man, an' he must go away.

He's found in every family, it doesn't matter where They live or be they rich or poor, the homely man is there.

You'll find him sitting quiet-like and sort of drawn apart, As though he felt he shouldn't be where folks are fine an' smart.

He likes to hide himself away, a watcher of the fun, An' seldom takes a leading part when any game's begun.

But when there's any task to do, like need for extra chairs, I've noticed it's the homely man that always climbs the stairs.

And always it's the homely man that happens in to mend The little toys the youngsters break, for he's the children's friend.

And he's the one that sits all night to watch beside the dead, And sends the worn-out sorrowers and broken hearts to bed.

The family wouldn't be complete without him night or day, To smooth the little troubles out and drive the cares away.