Just Folks Part 15

We've been climbing trees an' fences Never minding consequences.

And we helped the man to curry The fat ponies' sides so furry.

And we saw a squirrel taking Walnuts to the nest he's making, Storing them for winter, when he Can't get out to hunt for any.

And we watched the turkeys, growing Big and fat and never knowing That the reason they were living Is to die for our Thanksgiving.

We've been out to Pelletier's, Brus.h.i.+ng off the stain of years.

We were kids set free from shamming And the city's awful cramming, And the clamor and the bustle And the fearful rush and hustle-- Out of doors with room to race in And broad acres soft to chase in.

We just stretched our souls and let them Drop the petty cares that fret them, Left our narrow thoughts behind us, Loosed the selfish traits that bind us And were wholesomer and plainer Simpler, kinder folks and saner, And at night said: "It's a pity Mortals ever built a city."

At Christmas

A man is at his finest towards the finish of the year; He is almost what he should be when the Christmas season's here; Then he's thinking more of others than be's thought the months before, And the laughter of his children is a joy worth toiling for.

He is less a selfish creature than at any other time; When the Christmas spirit rules him he comes close to the sublime.

When it's Christmas man is bigger and is better in his part; He is keener for the service that is prompted by the heart.

All the petty thoughts and narrow seem to vanish for awhile And the true reward he's seeking is the glory of a smile.

Then for others he is toiling and somehow it seems to me That at Christmas he is almost what G.o.d wanted him to be.

If I had to paint a picture of a man I think I'd wait Till he'd fought his selfish battles and had put aside his hate.

I'd not catch him at his labors when his thoughts are all of pelf, On the long days and the dreary when he's striving for himself.

I'd not take him when he's sneering, when he's scornful or depressed, But I'd look for him at Christmas when he's s.h.i.+ning at his best.

Man is ever in a struggle and he's oft misunderstood; There are days the worst that's in him is the master of the good, But at Christmas kindness rules him and he puts himself aside And his petty hates are vanquished and his heart is opened wide.

Oh, I don't know how to say it, but somehow it seems to me That at Christmas man is almost what G.o.d sent him here to be.

The Little Army

Little women, little men, Childhood never comes again.

Live it gayly while you may; Give your baby souls to play; March to sound of stick and pan, In your paper hats, and tramp just as bravely as you can To your pleasant little camp.

Wooden sword and wooden gun Make a battle splendid fun.

Fine the victories you win Dimpled cheek and dimpled chin.

Little women, little men, Hearts are light when years are ten; Eyes are bright and cheeks are red When life's cares lie all ahead.

Drums make merry music when They are leading children out; Trumpet calls are cheerful then, Glorious is the battle shout.

Little soldiers, single file, Uniformed in grin and smile, Conquer every foe they meet Up and down the gentle street.

Little women, little men, Would that youth could come again!

Would that I might fall in line As a little boy of nine, But with broomstick for a gun, And with paper hat that I Bravely wore back there for fun, Never more may I defy Foes that deep in ambush kneel-- Now my warfare's grim and real.

I that once was brave and bold, Now am battered, bruised and old.

Little women, little men, Planning to attack my den, Little do you know the joy That you give a worn-out boy As he hears your gentle feet Pitter-patting in the hall; Gladly does he wait to meet Conquest by a troop so small.

Dimpled cheek and dimpled chin, You have but to smile to win.

Come and take him where he stays Dreaming of his by-gone days.

Who Is Your Boss?

"I work for someone else," he said; "I have no chance to get ahead.

At night I leave the job behind; At morn I face the same old grind.

And everything I do by day Just brings to me the same old pay.

While I am here I cannot see The semblance of a chance for me."

I asked another how he viewed The occupation he pursued.

"It's dull and dreary toil," said he, "And brings but small reward to me.

My boss gets all the profits fine That I believe are rightly mine.

My life's monotonously grim Because I'm forced to work for him."

I stopped a third young man to ask His att.i.tude towards his task.

A cheerful smile lit up his face; "I shan't be always in this place,"

He said, "because some distant day A better job will come my way."

"Your boss?" I asked, and answered he: "I'm going to make him notice me.

"He pays me wages and in turn That money I am here to earn, But I don't work for him alone; Allegiance to myself I own.

I do not do my best because It gets me favors or applause-- I work for him, but I can see That actually I work for me.

"It looks like business good to me The best clerk on the staff to be.

If customers approve my style And like my manner and my smile I help the firm to get the pelf, But what is more I help myself.

From one big thought I'm never free: That every day I work for me."

Oh, youth, thought I, you're bound to climb The ladder of success in time.

Too many self-impose the cross Of daily working for a boss, Forgetting that in failing him It is their own stars that they dim.

And when real service they refuse They are the ones who really lose.

The Truth About Envy

I like to see the flowers grow, To see the pansies in a row; I think a well-kept garden's fine, And wish that such a one were mine; But one can't have a stock of flowers Unless he digs and digs for hours.

My ground is always bleak and bare; The roses do not flourish there.

And where I once sowed poppy seeds Is now a tangled ma.s.s of weeds.'

I'm fond of flowers, but admit, For digging I don't care a bit.

I envy men whose yards are gay, But never work as hard as they; I also envy men who own More wealth than I have ever known.

I'm like a lot of men who yearn For joys that they refuse to earn.

You cannot have the joys of work And take the comfort of a s.h.i.+rk.

I find the man I envy most Is he who's longest at his post.

I could have gold and roses, too, If I would work like those who do.