Just Folks | Page 3

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Just Folks
by
Edgar A. Guest
To the Little Mother and
the Memory of the Big
Father, This
Simple Book
Is Affectionately Dedicated
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,
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.
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.
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