Just Folks Part 19

The Fisherman

Along a stream that raced and ran Through tangled trees and over stones, That long had heard the pipes o' Pan And shared the joys that nature owns, I met a fellow fisherman, Who greeted me in cheerful tones.

The lines of care were on his face.

I guessed that he had buried dead; Had run for gold full many a race, And kept great problems in his head, But in that gentle resting place No word of wealth or fame he said.

He showed me trout that he had caught And praised the larger ones of mine; Told me how that big beauty fought And almost broke his silken line; Spoke of the trees and sky, and thought Them proof of life and power divine.

There man to man we talked of trees And birds, as people talk of men; Discussed the busy ways of bees Wondered what lies beyond our ken; Where is the land no mortal sees, And shall we come this way again.

"Out here," he told me, with a smile, "Away from all the city's sham, The strife for splendor and for style, The ticker and the telegram I come for just a little while To be exactly as I am."

Foes think the bad in him they've guessed And prate about the wrong they scan; Friends that have seen him at his best Believe they know his every plan; I know him better than the rest, I know him as a fisherman.

The March of Mortality

Over the hills of time to the valley of endless years; Over the roads of woe to the land that is free from tears Up from the haunts of men to the place where the angels are, This is the march of mortality to a wonderful goal afar.

Troopers we are in life, warring at times with wrong, But promised ever unbroken rest at last in a land of song; And whether we serve or rule, and whether we fall or rise, We shall come, in time, to that golden vale where never the spirit dies.

Back of the strife for gain, and under the toil for fame, The dreams of men in this mortal march have ever remained the same.

They have lived through their days and years for the great rewards to be, When earth's dusty garb shall be laid aside for the robes of eternity.

This is the march of mortality, whatever man's race or creed, And whether he's one of the savage tribe or one of a higher breed, He is conscious dimly of better things that were promised him long ago, And he keeps his place in the line with men for the joys that his soul shall know.

Growing Down

Time was I thought of growing up, But that was ere the babies came; I'd dream and plan to be a man And win my share of wealth and fame, For age held all the splendors then And wisdom seemed lifes brightest crown For mortal brow. It's different now.

Each evening finds me growing down.

I'm not so keen for growing up To wrinkled cheek and heavy tongue, And sluggish blood; with little Bud I long to be a comrade young.

His sports are joys I want to share, His games are games I want to play, An old man grim's no chum for him And so I'm growing down to-day.

I'm back to marbles and to tops, To flying kites and one-ol'-cat; "Fan acres!" I now loudly cry; I also take my turn at bat; I've had my fling at growing up And want no old man's fair renown.

To be a boy is finer joy, And so I've started growing down.

Once more I'm learning games I knew When I was four and five and six, I'm going back along life's track To find the same old-fashioned tricks, And happy are the hours we spend Together, without sigh or frown.

To be a boy is Age's joy, And so to him I'm growing down.

The Roads of Happiness

The roads of happiness are not The selfish roads of pleasure seeking, Where cheeks are flushed with haste and hot And none has time for kindly speaking.

But they're the roads where lovers stray, Where wives and husbands walk together And children romp along the way Whenever it is pleasant weather.

The roads of happiness are trod By simple folks and tender-hearted, By gentle folks that worship G.o.d And want to live their days unparted.

There kindly people stop and talk, Regardless of the chase for money, There, arm in arm, the grown-ups walk And every eye you see is sunny.

The roads of happiness are lined, Not with the friends of royal splendor, But with the loyal friends and kind That do the gentle deeds and tender.

There fame has never brought unrest Nor glory set men's hearts to aching; There unabandoned is life's best For selfish love and money making.

The roads of happiness are those That do not lead to pomp and glory But wind among the joys and woes That make the humble toiler's story.

The roads that oft we used to tread In early days when first we mated, When hearts were light and cheeks were red, And days were not with burdens freighted.

June

June is here, the month of roses, month of brides and month of bees, Weaving garlands for our la.s.sies, whispering love songs in the trees, Painting scenes of gorgeous splendor, canvases no man could brush, Changing scenes from early morning till the sunset's crimson flush.

June is here, the month of blossoms, month of roses white and red, Wet with dew and perfume-laden, nodding wheresoe'er we tread; Come the bees to gather honey, all the lazy afternoon; Flowers and la.s.sies, men and meadows, love alike the month of June.

Month of love and month of sunshine, month of happiness and song, Month that cheers the sad wayfarer as he plods the road along; Spreading out a velvet carpet, green and yellow, for his feet, And affording for his rest hours many a cool and sweet retreat.

When Mother Sleeps

When mother sleeps, a slamming door Disturbs her not at all; A man might walk across the floor Or wander through the hall A pistol shot outside would not Drive slumber from her eyes-- But she is always on the spot The moment baby cries.

The thunder crash she would not hear, Nor shouting in the street; A barking dog, however near, Of sleep can never cheat Dear mother, but I've noticed this To my profound surprise: That always wide-awake she is The moment baby cries.

However weary she may be, Though wrapped in slumber deep, Somehow it always seems to me Her vigil she will keep.

Sound sleeper that she is, I take It in her heart there lies A love that causes her to wake The moment baby cries.

The Weaver

The patter of rain on the roof, The glint of the sun on the rose; Of life, these the warp and the woof, The weaving that everyone knows.

Now grief with its consequent tear, Now joy with its luminous smile; The days are the threads of the year-- Is what I am weaving worth while?

What pattern have I on my loom?

Shall my bit of tapestry please?

Am I working with gray threads of gloom?

Is there faith in the figures I seize?

When my fingers are lifeless and cold, And the threads I no longer can weave Shall there be there for men to behold One sign of the things I believe?