Just Folks(公正的民众)

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Just Folks

by Edgar A. Guest

Just Folks

We're queer folks here. We'll talk about the weather, The good times

we have had together, The good times near, The roses buddin', an' the bees

Once more upon their nectar sprees; The scarlet fever scare, an' who Came

mighty near not pullin' through, An' who had light attacks, an' all The

things that int'rest, big or small; But here you'll never hear of sinnin' Or

any scandal that's beginnin'. We've got too many other labors To scatter

tales that harm our neighbors.

We're strange folks here. We're tryin' to be cheerful, An' keep this

home from gettin' tearful. We hold it dear Too dear for pettiness an'

meanness, An' nasty tales of men's uncleanness. Here you shall come to

joyous smilin', Secure from hate an' harsh revilin'; Here, where the wood

fire brightly blazes, You'll hear from us our neighbor's praises. Here, that

they'll never grow to doubt us, We keep our friends always about us; An'

here, though storms outside may pelter Is refuge for our friends, an'

shelter.

We've one rule here, An' that is to be pleasant. The folks we know are

always present, Or very near. An' though they dwell in many places, We

think we're talkin' to their faces; An' that keeps us from only seein' The

faults in any human bein', An' checks our tongues when they'd go trailin'

Into the mire of mortal failin'. Flaws aren't so big when folks are near you;

You don't talk mean when they can hear you. An' so no scandal here is

started, Because from friends we're never parted.

As It Goes

In the corner she's left the mechanical toy, On the chair is her Teddy

Bear fine; The things that I thought she would really enjoy Don't seem to

be quite in her line. There's the flaxen-haired doll that is lovely to see And

really expensively dressed, Left alone, all uncared for, and strange though

it be, She likes her rag dolly the best.

Oh, the money we spent and the plans that we laid And the wonderful

things that we bought! There are toys that are cunningly, skillfully made,

Just Folks

But she seems not to give them a thought. She was pleased when she woke

and discovered them there, But never a one of us guessed That it isn't the

splendor that makes a gift rare-- She likes her rag dolly the best.

There's the flaxen-haired doll, with the real human hair, There's the

Teddy Bear left all alone, There's the automobile at the foot of the stair,

And there is her toy telephone; We thought they were fine, but a little

child's eyes Look deeper than ours to find charm, And now she's in bed,

and the rag dolly lies Snuggled close on her little white arm.

Hollyhocks

Old-fashioned flowers! I love them all: The morning-glories on the

wall, The pansies in their patch of shade, The violets, stolen from a glade,

The bleeding hearts and columbine, Have long been garden friends of

mine; But memory every summer flocks About a clump of hollyhocks.

The mother loved them years ago; Beside the fence they used to grow,

And though the garden changed each year And certain blooms would

disappear To give their places in the ground To something new that mother

found, Some pretty bloom or rosebush rare-- The hollyhocks were always

there.

It seems but yesterday to me She led me down the yard to see The first

tall spires, with bloom aflame, And taught me to pronounce their name.

And year by year I watched them grow, The first flowers I had come to

know. And with the mother dear I'd yearn To see the hollyhocks return.

The garden of my boyhood days With hollyhocks was kept ablaze; In

all my recollections they In friendly columns nod and sway; And when to-

day their blooms I see, Always the mother smiles at me; The mind's bright

chambers, life unlocks Each summer with the hollyhocks.

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Sacrifice

When he has more than he can eat To feed a stranger's not a feat.

When he has more than he can spend It isn't hard to give or lend.

Who gives but what he'll never miss Will never know what giving is.

He'll win few praises from his Lord Who does but what he can afford.

The widow's mite to heaven went Because real sacrifice it meant.

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Reward

Don't want medals on my breast, Don't want all the glory, I'm not

worrying greatly lest The world won't hear my story. A chance to dream

beside a stream Where fish are biting free; A day or two, 'neath skies of

blue, Is joy enough for me.

I do not ask a hoard of gold, Nor treasures rich and rare; I don't want

all the joys to hold; I only want a share. Just now and then, away from

men And all their haunts of pride, If I can steal, with rod and reel, I will be

satisfied.

I'll gladly work my way through life; I would not always play; I only

ask to quit the strife For an occasional day. If I can sneak from toil a week

To chum with stream and tree, I'll fish away and smiling say That life's

been good to me.

See It Thrnugh

When you're up against a trouble, Meet it squarely, face to face; Lift

your chin and set your shoulders, Plant your feet and take a brace. When

it's vain to try to dodge it, Do the best that you can do; You may fail, but

you may conquer, See it through!

Black may be the clouds about you And your future may seem grim,

But don't let your nerve desert you; Keep yourself in fighting trim. If the

worst is bound to happen, Spite of all that you can do, Running from it

will not save you, See it through!

Even hope may seem but futile, When with troubles you're beset, But

remember you are facing Just what other men have met. You may fail, but

fall still fighting; Don't give up, whate'er you do; Eyes front, head high to

the finish. See it through!

To the Humble

If all the flowers were roses, If never daisies grew, If no old-fashioned

posies Drank in the morning dew, Then man might have some reason To

whimper and complain, And speak these words of treason, That all our toil

is vain.

If all the stars were Saturns That twinkle in the night, Of equal size

Just Folks

and patterns, And equally as bright, Then men in humble places, With

humble work to do, With frowns upon their faces Might trudge their

journey through.

But humble stars and posies Still do their best, although They're

planets not, nor roses, To cheer the world below. And those old-fashioned

daisies Delight the soul of man; They're here, and this their praise is: They

work the Master's plan.

Though humble be your labor, And modest be your sphere, Come,

envy not your neighbor Whose light shines brighter here. Does God forget

the daisies Because the roses bloom? Shall you not win His praises By

toiling at your loom?

Have you, the toiler humble, Just reason to complain, To shirk your

task and grumble And think that it is vain Because you see a brother With

greater work to do? No fame of his can smother The merit that's in you.

When Nellie's on the Job

The bright spots in my life are when the servant quits the place,

Although that grim disturbance brings a frown to Nellie's face; The week

between the old girl's' reign and entry of the new Is one that's filled with

happiness and comfort through and through. The charm of living's back

again--a charm that servants rob-- I like the home, I like the meals, when

Nellie's on the job.

There's something in a servant's ways, however fine they be, That has

a cold and distant touch and frets the soul of me. The old home never

looks so well, as in that week or two That we are servantless and Nell has

all the work to do. There is a sense of comfort then that makes my pulses

throb And home is as it ought to be when Nellie's on the job.

Think not that I'd deny her help or grudge the servant's pay; When one

departs we try to get another right away; I merely state the simple fact that

no such joys I've known As in those few brief days at home when we've

been left alone. There is a gentleness that seems to soothe this selfish elf

And, Oh, I like to eat those meals that Nellie gets herself!

You cannot buy the gentle touch that mother gives the place; No

servant girl can do the work with just the proper grace. And though you

hired the queen of cooks to fashion your croquettes, Her meals would not

Just Folks

compare with those your loving comrade gets; So, though the maid has

quit again, and she is moved to sob, The old home's at its finest now, for

Nellie's on the job.

Just Folks

The Old, Old Story

I have no wish to rail at fate, And vow that I'm unfairly treated; I do

not give vent to my hate Because at times I am defeated. Life has its ups

and downs, I know, But tell me why should people say Whenever after

fish I go: "You should have been here yesterday"?

It is my luck always to strike A day when there is nothing doing, When

neither perch, nor bass, nor pike My baited hooks will come a-wooing.

Must I a day late always be? When not a nibble comes my way Must

someone always say to me: "We caught a bunch here yesterday"?

I am not prone to discontent, Nor over-zealous now to climb; If victory

is not yet meant For me I'll calmly bide my time. But I should like just

once to go Out fishing on some lake or bay And not have someone mutter:

"Oh, You should have been here yesterday."

The Pup

He tore the curtains yesterday, And scratched the paper on the wall;

Ma's rubbers, too, have gone astray-- She says she left them in the hall; He

tugged the table cloth and broke A fancy saucer and a cup; Though Bud

and I think it a joke Ma scolds a lot about the pup.

The sofa pillows are a sight, The rugs are looking 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.

Just Folks

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.

Just Folks

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.

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JustFolks1JustFolksbyEdgarA.GuestJustFolks2JustFolksWe'requeerfolkshere.We'lltalkabouttheweather,Thegoodtimeswehavehadtogether,Thegoodtimesnear,Therosesbuddin',an'thebeesOncemoreupontheirnectarsprees;Thescarletfeverscare,an'whoCamemightynearnotpullin'through,An'whohadlightattacks,an'allThethingsthat...

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