Just Folks | Page 6

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'