Read Ebook: Just Folks by Guest Edgar A Edgar Albert

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 576 lines and 66896 words, and 12 pages

We're past the hurt of fretting--we can talk about it now: She slipped away so gently and the fever left her brow So softly that we didn't know we'd lost her, but, instead, We thought her only sleeping as we watched beside her bed. Then the doctor, I remember, raised his head, as if to say What his eyes had told already, and Ma fainted dead away.

Up to then I thought that money was the thing I ought to get; And I fancied, once I had it, I should never have to fret. But I saw that I had wasted precious hours in seeking wealth; I had made a tidy fortune, but I couldn't buy her health. And I saw this truth much clearer than I'd ever seen before: That the rich man and the poor man have to let death through the door.

We're not half so keen for money as one time we used to be; I am thinking more of mother and she's thinking more of me. Now we spend more time together, and I know we're meaning more To each other on life's journey, than we ever meant before. It was hard to understand it! Oh, the dreary nights we've cried! But we've found the depth of loving, since the day that Jessie died.

Hard Luck

Ain't no use as I can see In sittin' underneath a tree An' growlin' that your luck is bad, An' that your life is extry sad; Your life ain't sadder than your neighbor's Nor any harder are your labors; It rains on him the same as you, An' he has work he hates to do; An' he gits tired an' he gits cross, An' he has trouble with the boss; You take his whole life, through an' through, Why, he's no better off than you.

If whinin' brushed the clouds away I wouldn't have a word to say; If it made good friends out o' foes I'd whine a bit, too, I suppose; But when I look around an' see A lot o' men resemblin' me, An' see 'em sad, an' see 'em gay With work t' do most every day, Some full o' fun, some bent with care, Some havin' troubles hard to bear, I reckon, as I count my woes, They're 'bout what everybody knows.

The day I find a man who'll say He's never known a rainy day, Who'll raise his right hand up an' swear In forty years he's had no care, Has never had a single blow, An' never known one touch o' woe, Has never seen a loved one die, Has never wept or heaved a sigh, Has never had a plan go wrong, But allus laughed his way along; Then I'll sit down an' start to whine That all the hard luck here is mine.

Vacation Time

Vacation time! How glad it seemed When as a boy I sat and dreamed Above my school books, of the fun That I should claim when toil was done; And, Oh, how oft my youthful eye Went wandering with the patch of sky That drifted by the window panes O'er pleasant fields and dusty lanes, Where I would race and romp and shout The very moment school was out. My artful little fingers then Feigned labor with the ink and pen, But heart and mind were far away, Engaged in some glad bit of play. The last two weeks dragged slowly by; Time hadn't then learned how to fly. It seemed the clock upon the wall From hour to hour could only crawl, And when the teacher called my name, Unto my cheeks the crimson came, For I could give no answer clear To questions that I didn't hear. "Wool gathering, were you?" oft she said And smiled to see me blushing red. Her voice had roused me from a dream Where I was fishing in a stream, And, if I now recall it right, Just at the time I had a bite.

And now my youngsters dream of play In just the very selfsame way; And they complain that time is slow And that the term will never go. Their little minds with plans are filled For joyous hours they soon will build, And it is vain for me to say, That have grown old and wise and gray, That time is swift, and joy is brief; They'll put no faith in such belief. To youthful hearts that long for play Time is a laggard on the way. 'Twas, Oh, so slow to me back then Ere I had learned the ways of men!

The Little Hurts

Every night she runs to me With a bandaged arm or a bandaged knee, A stone-bruised heel or a swollen brow, And in sorrowful tones she tells me how She fell and "hurted herse'f to-day" While she was having the "bestest play."

And I take her up in my arms and kiss The new little wounds and whisper this: "Oh, you must be careful, my little one, You mustn't get hurt while your daddy's gone, For every cut with its ache and smart Leaves another bruise on your daddy's heart."

Every night I must stoop to see The fresh little cuts on her arm or knee; The little hurts that have marred her play, And brought the tears on a happy day; For the path of childhood is oft beset With care and trouble and things that fret.

Oh, little girl, when you older grow, Far greater hurts than these you'll know; Greater bruises will bring your tears, Around the bend of the lane of years, But come to your daddy with them at night And he'll do his best to make all things right.

The Lanes of Memory

Adown the lanes of memory bloom all the flowers of yesteryear, And looking back we smile to see life's bright red roses reappear, The little sprigs of mignonette that smiled upon us as we passed, The pansy and the violet, too sweet, we thought those days, to last.

The gentle mother by the door caresses still her lilac blooms, And as we wander back once more we seem to smell the old perfumes, We seem to live again the joys that once were ours so long ago When we were little girls and boys, with all the charms we used to know.

But living things grow old and fade; the dead in memory remain, In all their splendid youth arrayed, exempt from suffering and pain; The little babe God called away, so many, many years ago, Is still a little babe to-day, and I am glad that this is so.

Time has not changed the joys we knew; the summer rains or winter snows Have failed to harm the wondrous hue of any dew-kissed bygone rose; In memory 'tis still as fair as when we plucked it for our own, And we can see it blooming there, if anything more lovely grown.

Adown the lanes of memory bloom all the joys of yesteryear, And God has given you and me the power to make them reappear; For we can settle back at night and live again the joys we knew And taste once more the old delight of days when all our skies were blue.

The Day of Days

A year is filled with glad events: The best is Christmas day, But every holiday presents Its special round of play, And looking back on boyhood now And all the charms it knew, One day, above the rest, somehow, Seems brightest in review. That day was finest, I believe; Though many grown-ups scoff, When mother said that we could leave Our shoes and stockings off.

Through all the pleasant days of spring We begged to know once more The joy of barefoot wandering And quit the shoes we wore; But always mother shook her head And answered with a smile: "It is too soon, too soon," she said. "Wait just a little while." Then came that glorious day at last When mother let us know That fear of taking cold was past And we could barefoot go.

Though Christmas day meant much to me, And eagerly I'd try The first boy on the street to be The Fourth day of July, I think: the summit of my joy Was reached that happy day Each year, when, as a barefoot boy, I hastened out to play. Could I return to childhood fair, That day I think I'd choose When mother said I needn't wear My stockings and my shoes.

A Fine Sight

I reckon the finest sight of all That a man can see in this world of ours Ain't the works of art on the gallery wall, Or the red an' white o' the fust spring flowers, Or a hoard o' gold from the yellow mines; But the' sight that'll make ye want t' yell Is t' catch a glimpse o' the fust pink signs In yer baby's cheek, that she's gittin' well.

When ye see the pink jes' a-creepin' back T' the pale, drawn cheek, an' ye note a smile, Then th' cords o' yer heart that were tight, grow slack An' ye jump fer joy every little while, An' ye tiptoe back to her little bed As though ye doubted yer eyes, or were Afraid it was fever come back instead, An' ye found that th' pink still blossomed there.

Ye've watched fer that smile an' that bit o' bloom With a heavy heart fer weeks an' weeks; An' a castle o' joy becomes that room When ye glimpse th' pink 'in yer baby's cheeks. An' out o' yer breast flies a weight o' care, An' ye're lifted up by some magic spell, An' yer heart jes' naturally beats a prayer O' joy to the Lord 'cause she's gittin' well.

Manhood's Greeting

I've' felt some little thrills of pride, I've inwardly rejoiced Along the pleasant lanes of life to hear my praises voiced; No great distinction have I claimed, but in a humble way Some satisfactions sweet have come to brighten many a day; But of the joyous thrills of life the finest that could be Was mine upon that day when first a stranger "mistered" me.

I had my first long trousers on, and wore a derby too, But I was still a little boy to everyone I knew. I dressed in manly fashion, and I tried to act the part, But I felt that I was awkward and lacked the manly art. And then that kindly stranger spoke my name and set me free; I was sure I'd come to manhood on the day he "mistered" me.

I never shall forget the joy that suddenly was mine, The sweetness of the thrill that seemed to dance along my spine, The pride that swelled within me, as he shook my youthful hand And treated me as big enough with grown up men to stand. I felt my body straighten and a stiffening at each knee, And was gloriously happy, just because he'd "mistered" me.

I cannot now recall his name, I only wish I could. I've often wondered if that day he really understood How much it meant unto a boy, still wearing boyhood's tan, To find that others noticed that he'd grown to be a man. Now I try to treat as equal every growing boy I see In memory of that kindly man--the first to "mister" me.

Fishing Nooks

"Men will grow weary," said the Lord, "Of working for their bed and board. They'll weary of the money chase And want to find a resting place Where hum of wheel is never heard And no one speaks an angry word, And selfishness and greed and pride And petty motives don't abide. They'll need a place where they can go To wash their souls as white as snow. They will be better men and true If they can play a day or two."

The Lord then made the brooks to flow And fashioned rivers here below, And many lakes; for water seems Best suited for a mortal's dreams. He placed about them willow trees To catch the murmur of the breeze, And sent the birds that sing the best Among the foliage to nest. He filled each pond and stream and lake With fish for man to come and take; Then stretched a velvet carpet deep On which a weary soul could sleep.

It seemed to me the Good Lord knew That man would want something to do When worn and wearied with the stress Of battling hard for world success. When sick at heart of all the strife And pettiness of daily life, He knew he'd need, from time to time, To cleanse himself of city grime, And he would want some place to be Where hate and greed he'd never see. And so on lakes and streams and brooks The Good Lord fashioned fishing nooks.

Show the Flag

Show the flag and let it wave As a symbol of the brave Let it float upon the breeze As a sign for each who sees That beneath it, where it rides, Loyalty to-day abides.

Show the flag and signify That it wasn't born to die; Let its colors speak for you That you still are standing true, True in sight of God and man To the work that flag began.

Show the flag that all may see That you serve humanity. Let it whisper to the breeze That comes singing through the trees That whatever storms descend You'll be faithful to the end.

Show the flag and let it fly, Cheering every passer-by. Men that may have stepped aside, May have lost their old-time pride, May behold it there, and then, Consecrate themselves again.

Show the flag! The day is gone When men blindly hurry on Serving only gods of gold; Now the spirit that was cold Warms again to courage fine. Show the flag and fall in line!

Constant Beauty

It's good to have the trees again, the singing of the breeze again, It's good to see the lilacs bloom as lovely as of old. It's good that we can feel again the touch of beauties real again, For hearts and minds, of sorrow now, have all that they can hold.

The roses haven't changed a bit, nor have the lilacs stranged a bit, They bud and bloom the way they did before the war began. The world is upside down to-day, there's much to make us frown to-day, And gloom and sadness everywhere beset the path of man.

But now the lilacs bloom again and give us their perfume again, And now the roses smile at us and nod along the way; And it is good to see again the blossoms on each tree again, And feel that nature hasn't changed the way we have to-day.

Oh, we have changed from what we were; we're not the carefree lot we were; Our hearts are filled with sorrow now and grave concern and pain, But it is good to see once more, the blooming lilac tree once more, And find the constant roses here to comfort us again.

A Patriotic Creed

To serve my country day by day At any humble post I may; To honor and respect her flag, To live the traits of which I brag; To be American in deed As well as in my printed creed.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet