Just Folks Part 10

And so, more thoughtful than I am, He talks of lofty things, And thus an evening hour we spend Sedate and grave as kings.

And should my soul be torn with grief Upon my shelf I find A little volume, torn and thumbled, For comfort just designed.

I take my little Bible down And read its pages o'er, And when I part from it I find I'm stronger than before.

Success

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.

Questions

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?

Sausage

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 ch.o.r.es, 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 demita.s.se That can scarcely hold a mouthful, but a cup of greater cla.s.s; 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 pa.s.sed 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.

Friends

Ain't it fine when things are going Topsy-turvy and askew To discover someone showing Good old-fas.h.i.+oned 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?

Gos.h.!.+ 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.

A Boost for Modern Methods

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-fas.h.i.+oned 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 s.h.i.+vers as I robe my manly form.

The Man to Be

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 G.o.d'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.