Just Folks | Page 5

things we never did before,?And it seems that to each other Ma and I are meaning more.?I don't know how to say it, but since little Jessie died?We have learned that to be happy we must travel side by side. You can share your joys and pleasures, but you never come to know The depth there is in loving, till you've got a common woe.
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