Just Folks | Page 5

somewhat frayed,

And there is ruin, left and right,
That little Boston bull has made.

He slept on Buddy's counterpane--
Ma found him there when she
woke up.
I think it needless to explain
She scolds a lot about the
pup.

And yet he comes and licks her hand
And sometimes climbs into her
lap
And there, Bud lets me understand,
He very often takes his nap.

And Bud and I have learned to know
She wouldn't give the rascal
up:
She's really fond of him, although
She scolds a lot about the
pup.
Since Jessie Died
We understand a lot of 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