Just Folks Part 13

There are no G.o.ds that bring to youth The rich rewards that stalwarts claim; The G.o.d of fortune is in truth A vision and an empty name.

The toiler who through doubt and care Unto his goal and victory plods, With no one need his glory share: He is himself his favoring G.o.ds.

There are no G.o.ds that will bestow Earth's joys and blessings on a man.

Each one must choose the path he'll go, Then win from it what joy he can.

And he that battles with the odds Shall know success, but he who waits The favors of the mystic G.o.ds, Shall never come to glory's gates.

No man is greater than his will; No G.o.ds to him will lend a hand!

Upon his courage and his skill The record of his life must stand.

What honors shall befall to him, What he shall claim of fame or pelf, Depend not on the favoring whim Of fortune's G.o.d, but on himself.

The Auto

An auto is a helpful thing; I love the way the motor hums, I love each cus.h.i.+on and each spring, The way it goes, the way it comes; It saves me many a dreary mile, It brings me quickly to the smile Of those at home, and every day It adds unto my time for play.

It keeps me with my friends in touch; No journey now appears too much To make with meetings at the end: It gives me time to be a friend.

It laughs at distance, and has power To lengthen every fleeting hour.

It bears me into country new That otherwise I'd never view.

It's swift and st.u.r.dy and it strives To fill with happiness our lives; When for the doctor we've a need It brings him to our door with speed.

It saves us hours of anxious care And heavy heartache and despair.

It has its faults, but still I sing: The auto is a helpful thing.

The Handy Man

The handy man about the house Is old and bent and gray; Each morning in the yard he toils, Where all the children play; Some new task every day he finds, Some task he loves to do, The handy man about the house, Whose work is never through.

The children stand to see him toil, And watch him mend a chair; They bring their broken toys to him He keeps them in repair.

No idle moment Grandpa spends, But finds some work to do, And hums a s.n.a.t.c.h of some old song, That in his youth he knew.

He builds with wood most wondrous things: A table for the den, A music rack to please the girls, A gun case for the men.

And 'midst his paints and tools he smiles, And seems as young and gay As any of the little ones Who round him run in play.

I stopped to speak with him awhile; "Oh, tell me, Grandpa, pray,"

I said, "why do you work so hard Throughout the livelong day?

Your hair is gray, your back is bent, With weight of years oppressed; This is the evening of your life-- Why don't you sit and rest?"

"Ah, no," the old man answered me, "Although I'm old and gray, I like to work out here where I Can watch the children play.

The old have tasks that they must do; The greatest of my joys Is working on this shaded porch, And mending children's toys."

And as I wandered on, I thought, Oh, shall I lonely be When time has powdered white my hair, And left his mark on me?

Will little children round me play, Shall I have work to do?

Or shall I be, when age is mine, Lonely and useless too?

The New Days

The old days, the old days, how oft the poets sing, The days of hope at dewy morn, the days of early spring, The days when every mead was fair, and every heart was true, And every maiden wore a smile, and every sky was blue The days when dreams were golden and every night brought rest, The old, old days of youth and love, the days they say were best But I--I sing the new days, the days that lie before, The days of hope and fancy, the days that I adore.

The new days, the new days, the selfsame days they are; The selfsame suns.h.i.+ne heralds them, the selfsame evening star s.h.i.+nes out to light them on their way unto the Bygone Land, And with the selfsame arch of blue the world to-day is spanned.

The new days, the new days, when friends are just as true, And maidens smile upon us all, the way they used to do, Dreams we know are golden dreams, hope springs in every breast; It cheers us in the dewy morn and soothes us when we rest.

The new days, the new days, of them I want to sing, The new days with the fancies and the golden dreams they bring; The old days had their pleasures, but likewise have the new The gardens with their roses and the meadows bright with dew; We love to-day the selfsame way they loved in days of old; The world is bathed in beauty and it isn't growing cold; There's joy for us a-plenty, there are tasks for us to do, And life is worth the living, for the friends we know are true.

The Call

Joy stands on the hilltops, Beckoning to me, Urging me to journey Up where I can see Blue skies ever smiling, Cool green fields below, Hear the songs of children Still untouched by woe.

Joy stands on the hilltops, Urging me to stay, Spite of toil and trouble, To life's rugged way, Holding out a promise Of a life serene When the steeps I've mastered Lying now between.

Joy stands on the hilltops, Smiling down at me, Urging me to clamber Up where I can see Over toil and trouble Far beyond despair, And I answer smiling: Some day I'll be there.

Songs of Rejoicing

Songs of rejoicin', Of love and of cheer, Are the songs that I'm yearnin' for Year after year.

The songs about children Who laugh in their glee Are the songs worth the singin', The bright songs for me.

Songs of rejoicin', Of kisses and love, Of faith in the Father, Who sends from above The sunbeams to scatter The gloom and the fear; These songs worth the singin', The songs of good cheer.

Songs of rejoicin', Oh, sing them again, The brave songs of courage Appealing to men.

Of hope in the future Of heaven the goal; The songs of rejoicin'

That strengthen the soul.

Another Mouth to Feed

We've got another mouth to feed, From out our little store; To satisfy another's need Is now my daily ch.o.r.e.

A growing family is ours, Beyond the slightest doubt; It takes all my financial powers To keep them looking stout.

With us another makes his bow To breakfast, dine and sup; Our little circle's larger now, For Buddy's got a pup.

If I am frayed about the heels And both my elbows s.h.i.+ne And if my overcoat reveals The poverty that's mine, 'Tis not because I squander gold In folly's reckless way; The cost of foodstuffs, be it told, Takes all my weekly pay.

'Tis putting food on empty plates That eats my wages up; And now another mouth awaits, For Buddy's got a pup.