Just Folks | Page 9

strings with sense,
But I fall for a toy
for my girl or my boy
And never regard the expense.
It's seldom I sigh for unlimited gold
Or the power of a rich man to
buy;
My courage is stout when the doing without
Is only my duty,
but I
Curse the shackles of thrift when I gaze at the toys
That my
kiddies are eager to own,
And I'd buy everything that they wish for,
by Jing!
If their mother would let me alone.
There isn't much fun spending coin on myself
For neckties and
up-to-date lids,
But there's pleasure tenfold, in the silver and gold
I
part with for things for the kids.
I can go through the town passing
store after store
Showing things it would please me to own,
But to
thrift I am lost; I won't reckon the cost
When I'm left in a toy shop
alone.
The Mother on the Sidewalk
The mother on the sidewalk as the troops are marching by
Is the
mother of Old Glory that is waving in the sky.
Men have fought to
keep it splendid, men have died to keep it bright, But that flag was born

of woman and her sufferings day and night; 'Tis her sacrifice has made
it, and once more we ought to pray For the brave and loyal mother of
the boy who goes away.
There are days of grief before her; there are hours that she will weep;
There are nights of anxious waiting when her fear will banish sleep;
She has heard her country calling and has risen to the test, And has
placed upon the altar of the nation's need, her best. And no man shall
ever suffer in the turmoil of the fray
The anguish of the mother of the
boy who goes away.
You may boast men's deeds of glory, you may tell their courage great,
But to die is easier service than alone to sit and wait,
And I hail the
little mother, with the tear-stained face and grave, Who has given the
flag a soldier--she's the bravest of the brave. And that banner we are
proud of, with its red and blue and white, Is a lasting holy tribute to all
mothers' love of right.
Memorial Day
The finest tribute we can pay
Unto our hero dead to-day,
Is not a
rose wreath, white and red,
In memory of the blood they shed;
It is
to stand beside each mound,
Each couch of consecrated ground,

And pledge ourselves as warriors true
Unto the work they died to do.
Into God's valleys where they lie
At rest, beneath the open sky,

Triumphant now o'er every foe,
As living tributes let us go.
No
wreath of rose or immortelles
Or spoken word or tolling bells
Will
do to-day, unless we give
Our pledge that liberty shall live.
Our hearts must be the roses red
We place above our hero dead;

To-day beside their graves we must
Renew allegiance to their trust;

Must bare our heads and humbly say
We hold the Flag as dear as they,

And stand, as once they stood, to die
To keep the Stars and Stripes
on high.

The finest tribute we can pay
Unto our hero dead to-day
Is not of
speech or roses red,
But living, throbbing hearts instead,
That shall
renew the pledge they sealed
With death upon the battlefield:
That
freedom's flag shall bear no stain
And free men wear no tyrant's
chain.
Memory
I stood and watched him playing,
A little lad of three,
And back to
me came straying
The years that used to be;
In him the boy was
Maying
Who once belonged to me.
The selfsame brown his eyes were
As those that once I knew;
As
glad and gay his cries were,
He owned his laughter, too.
His
features, form and size were
My baby's, through and through.
His ears were those I'd sung to;
His chubby little hands
Were those
that I had clung to;
His hair in golden strands
It seemed my heart
was strung to
By love's unbroken bands.
With him I lived the old days
That seem so far away;
The beautiful
and bold days
When he was here to play;
The sunny and the gold
days
Of that remembered May.
I know not who he may be
Nor where his home may be,
But I shall
every day be
In hope again to see
The image of the baby
Who
once belonged to me.
The Stick-Together Familics
The stick-together families are happier by far
Than the brothers and
the sisters who take separate highways are. The gladdest people living
are the wholesome folks who make A circle at the fireside that no
power but death can break. And the finest of conventions ever held
beneath the sun
Are the little family gatherings when the busy day is
done.

There are rich folk, there are poor folk, who imagine they are wise,
And they're very quick to shatter all the little family ties. Each goes
searching after pleasure in his own selected way, Each with strangers
likes to wander, and with strangers likes to play. But it's bitterness they
harvest, and it's empty joy they find, For the children