A Heap O Livin | Page 7

bad,
Your faults an' virtues, an'
have seen the struggles

you have had,
When they come to you gentle-like an' take
your hand an' say:
"Cheer up! we're with you still," it counts, for
that's the old friends' way.
The new friends may be fond of you for what
you are to-day;
They've only known you rich, perhaps, an' only
seen you gay;
You can't tell what's attracted them; your
station may appeal;
Perhaps they smile on you because you're doin'
something real;
But old friends who have seen you fail, an' also
seen you win,
Who've loved you either up or down, stuck
to you, thick or thin,
Who knew you as a budding youth, an' watched
you start to climb,
Through weal an' woe, still friends of yours
an' constant all the time,
When trouble comes an' things go wrong, I
don't care what you say,
They are the friends you'll turn to, for you
want the old friends' way.
The new friends may be richer, an' more stylish,
too, but when
Your heart is achin' an' you think your sun
won't shine again,
It's not the riches of new friends you want, it's
not their style,
It's not the airs of grandeur then, it's just the
old friend's smile,
The old hand that has helped before, stretched

out once more to you,
The old words ringin' in your ears, so sweet
an',
Oh, so true!
The tenderness of folks who know just what
your sorrow means,
These are the things on which, somehow, your
spirit always leans.
When grief is poundin' at your breast -- the
new friends disappear
An' to the old ones tried an' true, you turn for
aid an' cheer.
FOLKS
We was speakin' of folks, jes' common folks,
An' we come to this
conclusion,
That wherever they be, on land or sea,
They warm to a
home allusion;
That under the skin an' under the hide
There's a
spark that starts a-glowin'
Whenever they look at a scene or book

That something of home is showin'.
They may differ in creeds an' politics,
They may argue an' even
quarrel,
But their throats grip tight, if they catch a
sight
Of their favorite elm or laurel.
An' the winding lane that they
used to tread
With never a care to fret 'em,
Or the pasture gate
where they used to wait,
Right under the skin will get 'em.
Now folks is folks on their different ways,
With their different griefs
an' pleasures,
But the home they knew, when their years were
few,
Is the dearest of all their treasures.
An' the richest man to the
poorest waif
Right under the skin is brother
When they stand an'
sigh, with a tear-dimmed
eye,
At a thought of the dear old mother.

It makes no difference where it may be,
Nor the fortunes that years
may alter,
Be they simple or wise, the old home ties
Make all of 'em
often falter.
Time may robe 'em in sackcloth coarse
Or garb 'em in
gorgeous splendor,
But whatever their lot, they keep one spot
Down
deep that is sweet an' tender.
We was speakin' of folks, jes' common folks,
An' we come to this
conclusion,
That one an' all, be they great or small,
Will warm to a
home allusion;
That under the skin an' the beaten hide
They're kin
in a real affection
For the joys they knew, when their years were
few,
An' the home of their recollection.
LITTLE MASTER MISCHIEVOUS
Little Master Mischievous, that's the name for
you;
There's no better title that describes the things
you do:
Into something all the while where you
shouldn't be,
Prying into matters that are not for you to see;
Little
Master Mischievous, order's overthrown
If your mother leaves you
for a minute all
alone.
Little Master Mischievous, opening every door,
Spilling books and
papers round about the parlor
floor,
Scratching all the tables and marring all the
chairs,
Climbing where you shouldn't climb and tumbling
down the stairs.
How'd you get the ink well? We can never

guess.
Now the rug is ruined; so's your little dress.
Little Master Mischievous, in the cookie jar,
Who has ever told you
where the cookies are?
Now your sticky fingers smear the curtains
white;
You have finger-printed everything in sight.
There's no use
in scolding; when you smile that
way
You can rob of terror every word we say.
Little Master Mischievous, that's the name for
you;
There's no better title that describes the things
you do:
Prying into corners, peering into nooks,
Tugging table
covers, tearing costly books.
Little Master Mischievous, have your
roguish
way;
Time, I know, will stop you, soon enough some
day.
OPPORTUNITY
So long as men shall be on earth
There will be tasks for them to do,

Some way for them to show their worth;
Each day shall bring its
problems new.
And men shall dream of mightier deeds
Than ever have been done
before:
There always shall be human needs
For men to work and
struggle for.
THE SORROW TUGS
There's a lot of joy in the smiling world,
there's plenty of morning sun,
And laughter and songs and dances,

too, whenever
the day's work's done;
Full many an hour is a shining one, when
viewed by itself apart,
But the golden