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Down 'Round 
 Our Pier 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 JAMES M. WOODMAN 
 
Down 'Round Our Pier 
 
 and 
 
 Other Poems 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMES M. WOODMAN 
 
 ^ 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 THE GAZETTE PUBLISHING CO. 
 
 WAUKEGAN, ILLINOIS 
 
,0 
 
 4<^ 
 
 TO 
 
 i^B jfrtrnD0, 
 
 WHO HAVE OFFERED SUGGESTIONS AND EXPRESSED 
 
 APPRECIATION, THIS BOOK IS MOST 
 
 AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED. 
 
 
jForetoorli 
 
 This little book of verse is made up from 
 the result of the "daily grind" in the office of a 
 newspaper. No attempt has been made, nor 
 hope entertained, to have the homely rhymes 
 do more than touch upon such subjects as are 
 dear to my own home folks, and others who 
 like the commonplace and easily understood 
 things of life. 
 
 All of these poems have been published 
 in the Waukegan Daily Gazette upon the day 
 they were written, and in answer to many 
 requests by those who have read them from 
 day to day asking for them in a more perm- 
 anent form, this volume has been compiled. 
 
 JAMES M. WOODMAN. 
 
 Waukegan, III, December 25th, 1916. 
 
Copyright 1916 
 
 By 
 
 James M. Woodman. 
 
 JAN -2 1217 
 
DOWN 'ROUND OUR PIER. 
 
 Of all th' sports, it pears t' me 
 
 Th' best 'at comes along, by gee, 
 
 When summer skies er warm an' clear, 
 Is swimmin' down around our pier. 
 
 An' there is somethin' soothin' like 
 
 T' see a chubby little tyke 
 Who's back's all browned by wind an' sun, 
 
 Down 'round our pier a-havn' fun. 
 
 An' so of all th' places w^here 
 
 Th' sands and waves, an' sky an' air 
 Are perfect, I aint got no fear 
 
 T' claim it's down around our pier. 
 
 Some folks don't care fer it I s'pose, 
 
 But when I go an' shed my clothes 
 
 Down 'round our pier, it makes me think 
 Thet I am right on Heaven's brink. 
 
 It seems t' bring back faces too. 
 
 Of fellers thet I one time knew; 
 
 An' — one night, settin' on our pier 
 
 I spunked right up and called her dear. 
 
 Last ev'nin' as she held my hand, 
 
 We roamed 'way back in Mem'ry's land, 
 I whispered, "Where'll w^e go to dear? "- — 
 
 "Let's stroll," she said, "down 'round our pier. 
 
MY MOTHER. 
 
 A modest little woman, with a little 
 
 wrinkled face; 
 But the kindness which is in it, no 
 
 furrows can erase: 
 I often sit and watch her when the ev'ning 
 
 tw^ilight comes. 
 And listen to the music of the quaint old 
 
 song she hums, 
 While my mind goes bounding backward, 
 
 throughout the bygone days 
 To recollect her goodness in 9 thousand 
 
 little ways. 
 
 I can see a chubby fellow a-coming home 
 
 at night 
 To claim a royal w^elcome from the one of 
 
 whom I write: 
 I can see her tuck him gently within a 
 
 snow^-white bed, 
 With a pray'rful benediction, that the 
 
 Master overhead 
 Would ever guide the footsteps of the boy 
 
 she loved so true. 
 And grant a Father's pardon, for the wrongs 
 
 he chanced to do. 
 
 And so, I still adore her, though her 
 
 youthful beauty's gone: 
 As her form grows ever frailer, there seems 
 
 to clearly dawn 
 A sweetness in her actions, which doth bind 
 
 her close to me 
 By a million endless fetters that will not 
 
 let me free: 
 God bless and keep her ever, — ^like her, 
 
 there is no other; — 
 She was my chum; my sweetheart; I love her; 
 
 she's my mother. 
 
RIGHT HERE AT HOME. 
 
 I've seen a lot o* people of various 
 
 shapes an' style; 
 An* some of them I haven't liked, an' 
 
 some I've liked a pile. 
 But no matter where I've met 'em, nor 
 
 where I've chanced to roam, 
 I've alius had a hankerin' fer folks 
 
 right here at home. 
 
 A feller wakes at mOrnin' in a swell 
 
 hotel an' goes 
 Down t' th' breakfast table — after 
 
 puttin' on his clothes; 
 He tucks his napkin 'neath his chin 
 
 an' reads th' bill o' fare; 
 An' wonders who invented all th' things 
 
 that greets him there. 
 
 That hour with me has alius been a 
 
 time t' set an' dream 
 About th' coffee back at home — sometimes 
 
 without no cream: — 
 Th' oilcloth-covered table an* th* 
 
 roarin' kitchen fire; 
 My wife, an' in a high-chair, a baby 
 
 settin' by 'er. 
 
 Now perhaps I am old fashioned an' 
 
 out o' date a bit; 
 But ef I am, by jing! I ain't th' 
 
 leastwise 'shamed of it: 
 An' so I claim there ain't no folks nor 
 
 place 'neath heaven's dome, 
 Thet half compares with w^hat a feller 
 
 finds Hght here at home. 
 
WHEN THE EVENING SHADOWS FALL. 
 
 Oh the things which give us pleasure 
 
 when busy days are done; 
 When shadows come to greet us with 
 
 the setting of the sun; 
 Which make our hearts beat faster and 
 
 which Hghten up our load, 
 Are the things we've done for others 
 
 along Life's weary road. 
 
 It isn't what we've gathered in 
 
 to place upon our shelf; — 
 True happiness was never bought 
 
 with worldly greed and pelf: — 
 'Tis our little acts of kindness, 
 
 that cast upon the wall 
 The figures which delight us when 
 
 the ev'ning shadows fall. 
 
 'Tis he who muses fondly o'er the 
 
 actions of a day. 
 All conscious of the fact he's helped 
 
 some brother on his way, 
 Who can claim the crowning glory that 
 
 God would have men know 
 When days of toil are over and the 
 
 sun is sinking low. 
 
 And so, it's when I'm sitting with 
 
 my children on my knee, 
 In the soft and mellow twilight, — their 
 
 mother watching me; — 
 If I've done some act of kindness, 
 
 the Maker of us all 
 Seems just a wee bit closer as the 
 
 ev'ning shadows fall. 
 
UNCLE JERRY'S LOGIC. 
 
 Uncle Jerry Haskins was th* man who 
 
 mended shoes; 
 Us fellers uster drop around an' git 
 
 th' latest news 
 In his shop, an' listen also t' th' 
 
 logic he possessed, — 
 An' th' quaintness of th' language 
 
 in which it was expressed. 
 
 I'd ruther set an' listen t' th' words 
 
 thet Jerry said. 
 An' see him lift his cap a bit an' rub 
 
 his old bald head, 
 An' chaw his baccer as he'd squint out 
 
 through his glasses, than 
 T' own the greatest fortune thet was 
 
 ever made by man. 
 
 I 'member oncet when we was all a-settin' 
 
 'round one day, 
 A-list'nin' to his w^isdom as he punched 
 
 an' pegged away. 
 He told us how he b'lieved most men could 
 
 get along all right 
 Ef they'd fergit their neighbor's work, 
 
 an' keep their own in sight. 
 
 He summed it up about like this, — 
 
 **The time fer me er you 
 '*T' manage other folks affairs an' tell 
 
 'em what t' do, 
 "Is when they've failed completely, an' 
 
 by their actions shown 
 "They can't work out th' problems of their 
 
 biziness, alone." 
 
'ROUND 'BOUT HERE. 
 
 I hev been around a trifle, an' dropped 
 
 in here an there; 
 I've seen some places which were fine, 
 
 an' others, — w^ell, jest fair: 
 I've heerd men brag about their towns, 
 
 but I aint go no fear 
 T' claim they aint no spot on earth 
 
 compares with 'round 'bout here. 
 
 Of course I'm w^illin' t' admit thet ef 
 
 folks hed a show^ 
 They might hev made things difl'rently, 
 
 but somehow, don't you know, 
 I kinder b'lieve when God designed th* 
 
 world, he purty near 
 picked out th* best material t' build 
 
 things 'round 'bout here. 
 
 Some folks is alius figgetin* about 
 
 this "Vale of Tears;" — 
 Why, bless your soul, I'd like t' stay 
 
 'round here a millyun years! 
 An* then pass on t' w^here I'd meet th* 
 
 old friends true an' dear, 
 A-livin' like they uster did w^hen they 
 
 was 'round 'bout here. 
 
SWEETEST LINK IN MEMORY'S CHAIN 
 
 Oh the days of long ago 
 
 In a land I used to know, 
 Where the summer skies were ever brightest blue, 
 
 Lived a lassie, sweet and fair, 
 
 With a crown of golden hair, 
 And a heart she promised always would be true. 
 
 Though that time is far away, 
 
 I can see her now today, 
 Just as when we wandered by the old mill stream; 
 As we clasped each other's hands, 
 
 And we talked about the lands 
 That we'd visit, — in our happy childhood dream. 
 
 I can see her dainty dress. 
 
 And remember each caress, — 
 As we sat within those nooks of Nature's mold: 
 
 And the silv'ry voice I heard. 
 
 Sweeter than the song of bird 
 Comes to me once more as in the days of old. 
 
 For, each ev'ning on my knee, 
 
 Where her wond'rous eyes I see. 
 Do I fondly stroke and kiss each golden curl; — 
 
 Looking back into the past, 
 
 As I told her, oh, so fast, — ^ ^ ^^ 
 
 While she lisps, "I's 'urs an' mammas *ittle girl. 
 
•A FRIEND IS NATURE'S MASTERPIECE." 
 
 Old Nature made a lot o' things t' help 
 
 th' human race: 
 She fashioned mountains, trees an' flow'rs 
 
 this good old world t' grace: 
 Beneath th' briny ocean's waves are 
 
 wonders without end; 
 But of her works I think th' best is jest 
 
 a true-blue friend. 
 
 When days are dark an' dreary, an' a 
 
 feller's down an' out; 
 An' th' clouds keep back th' sunshine, an' 
 
 th' w^orld seems full o' doubt; 
 It's purty nice t' know thet you kin slip 
 
 around an' spend 
 An hour or two w^ith someone thet you 
 
 know's a true-blue friend. 
 
 Now folks kin hev their money, an' hev all 
 
 th' things 'twill buy; 
 An' travel 'round an' put on airs an* 
 
 think they're flyin' high: — 
 But, give me love and sunshine, as old 
 
 Nature made 'em blend 
 Within th' heart of one I know who's proved 
 
 a true-blue friend. 
 
THE HOUSE OF "NEVER' 
 
 ^There's a house that's known as "Never," 
 
 in the street called "By-and-By;" 
 And the people who reside there, care 
 
 not how moments fly; 
 For they're never in a hurry, and they 
 
 ne'er possess a care, 
 And they greet their obligations with 
 
 a dreamy, vacant stare. 
 
 'Tis a quiet, shady pathw^ay, that street 
 
 called "By-and-By;" 
 Of course the folks one meets there are 
 
 not like you and I. 
 We're told the house of "Never" is very 
 
 cold and drear. 
 Though it opens wide its portals to all 
 
 who passeth near. 
 
 The world is looking ever for the men 
 
 who "do it now!" 
 Results are what we're seeking, — we 
 
 don't ask why or how: — 
 So if you'd gain our favor, just take 
 
 advice and try 
 To shun the house of "Never," in the 
 
 street called "By-and By." 
 
NEIGHBOR. FRIEND AND WIFE 
 
 Miss Sarah was our neighbor an' she uster 
 
 come an' set 
 An* visit ma an' me o' nights, an' I 
 
 kin see her yet, 
 With her polka-dotted wrapper, an' curls 
 
 jest tinged with gray. 
 As plain as though 'twant years ago, but 
 
 only yistaday. 
 
 An' as she talked o' picklin' an' o* 
 
 cannin' fruit, I sat 
 An' smoked my pipe, w^hile mother *d nod, 
 
 an' smile a bit, an' tat; 
 Then all at oncet it daw^ned 'pon me thet 
 
 'twasn't quite th' same 
 When we was left t* set alone — as 'twere 
 
 when Sarah came. 
 
 I found my heart beat faster w^hen she 
 
 entered at th' door; 
 An' though I wouldn't own it then, each 
 
 day I liked her more: 
 An* finally one even'n' I jest tuk her 
 
 home, an' — well, 
 Th' things I sed t' Sarah are too sacred 
 
 fer t' tell. 
 
 But, since th' years of joy an* w^oe hev 
 
 glided on apace. 
 An' Time hez slowly worn th' furrows 
 
 deep upon my face, 
 I thank th' Lord who guided me, a-watchin* 
 
 o'er my life — 
 An' Seu-ah sez she thanks Him too fer makin* 
 
 her my wife. 
 
BLOSSOM TIME 
 
 Oh, the blossoms in the trees 
 Kissed by sun and fanned by breeze; 
 With your white and pink and blue, 
 Set with diamonds made of dew: 
 
 How I love to sit and drink 
 Of your fragrance, as I think, — 
 Dreaming o'er life's hope and feeir 
 Of the far-gone yesteryear. 
 
 Oh, the blossoms how they bring 
 Old-time scenes to me each Spring; — 
 I can see a gingham dress 
 As a little hand I press: 
 
 Throat as white as that which grew 
 Up among the pink and blue; 
 And a pair of azure eyes 
 Purer than the summer skies: 
 
 Memory brings back once more 
 Dimpled cheeks and smiles of yore; 
 Twittering of mating birds — 
 And my Mary's whispered words. 
 
 When my Father calls for me, 
 I am going to ask that He 
 Let me rest forever, where 
 Springtime blossoms scent the air. 
 
WHEN THE ODOR OF THE COFFEE COMES 
 A-FLOATIN' UP THE SJAIRS 
 
 There's lots uv things that please a man 
 
 when he is feelin' good; 
 An' has an appetite that's strong an' 
 
 serves him as it should: 
 But th' thing that's alius soothed me, an* 
 
 driv away all cares, 
 Is t' smell th' breakfast coffee a floatin' 
 
 up th' stairs. 
 
 When a feller lies a stretchin' an' hatin' 
 
 fer t' rise; 
 An' he pokes his head from under an' rubs 
 
 his sleepy eyes; 
 There's nuthin' half so pleasin' as it hits 
 
 him unawares 
 As th' odor uv th' coffee a-floatin' up 
 
 the stairs. 
 
 By heck! I've staid w^here folks declared th' 
 
 service wuz supreme; 
 In hotels where they drenched th' cheapest 
 
 kinds uv food in cream: 
 Where gold wuz smeared on bedsteads an' 
 
 plastered on th' chairs; — 
 But no odor uv th' coffee came a-floatin' 
 
 up th' stairs. 
 
 Now you kin choose th' places where th* 
 
 sun in winter-time 
 Makes roses bloom an' folks all claim th' 
 
 climate is snblin^e; 
 But as fer me, I'll stay at home an' not 
 
 put on no airs, 
 An' smell my coffee in th' morn a-floatin* 
 up th' stairs. 
 
AT THE CIRCUS 
 
 Of all th' things a feller sees, 
 From dancin' bears to fightin' fleas; 
 The zebras an' giraffes an' things 
 That crawl or move about on wings; — 
 To me there's one thing which alone 
 Is best of all — 
 
 th' 
 
 slide 
 
 trombone. 
 
 Th' elephants an' monkeys too; 
 
 Th' camels an' th' kangaroo; 
 
 Th' lions an' th' tiger cat; 
 
 An' clowns in funny dress an' hat 
 
 Are great, but still I'll have t' own — 
 
 Th' best of all's 
 
 th' 
 
 slide 
 
 trombone. 
 
 When he who plays that horn takes flight 
 An' hits th' upper scale just right; 
 An' then drops down past lower "C," 
 He sends a 'lectric shock, by gee 
 Right down my back, — an' I have grown 
 T' like it best — 
 
 th' 
 
 slide 
 
 trombone. 
 
WHEN SHE'S AWAY 
 
 When she's away it seems t' me 
 Life aint jest what it used t' be. 
 
 I don't feel right, 
 
 My heart aint light, 
 As when I know she's somewhere near. 
 ,The birds somehow don't never sing; 
 An' nuthin' don't no pleasure bring; 
 
 All through th' day 
 
 Th' skies are gray, — 
 An' I keep wishin' she w^as here. 
 
 When she's away a shadder seems 
 
 T' shet out all th' old sun's bleams; 
 
 An* then at night. 
 
 Tears come t' blight 
 An* keep the stars from shinin' clear. 
 Th' gentlest breeze seems but a sigh; 
 Flow'rs hang their heads and 'pear t* cry; 
 
 Each rose-tree leaf 
 
 Is drooped in grief; — 
 An' I keep wishin' she was here. 
 
AS LITTLE SISTER SEES IT 
 
 When brother Willie pouts an' snarls, an' 
 
 acts like bad boys do; 
 An' bawls an' sniffles 'round th' house, 
 
 an' uses cuss words too; 
 Nen Mamma looks at Pa an' sez — "That 
 
 child inherits that; 
 "He's dest exactly like your folks, th' 
 
 nasty little brat." 
 
 But, when Bill goes t' Sunday School an' 
 
 sez th' Scripture verse; 
 An' prays an' tells his teacher dear 'at 
 
 he wont never curse; 
 Ner smoke, ner chew, ner cheat th' poor 
 
 ner other chil'ren strike; — 
 Ma sez, — "He's dest like our folks, th* 
 
 darlin' little tyke." 
 
 That I am not a little boy like Willie, 
 
 makes me glad; 
 'Cause he's like Ma's folks when he's good, 
 
 an' Pa's folks when he's bad:, 
 But, I am dest like our folks, an' I 
 
 think that's best you know, 
 'Cause there aint no folks like our folks, 
 
 no matter where you go. 
 
WERE I A POET 
 
 Could I but write as poets do about 
 
 the things I love; 
 The trees and flow'rs and Autumn days, 
 
 with skies of blue above: 
 I'd tune my harp and w^ield my pen in 
 
 sweetest song to you, — 
 Could I but dream the dreams of love, 
 
 and write as poets do. 
 
 Could I but see as poets see, how fondly 
 
 I would gaze 
 Back o'er the scenes of other times, and 
 
 live again the days 
 When I met you my Mary, beneath the 
 
 trysting tree, — 
 Could I possess the vision and see as 
 
 poets see. 
 
 Could I but know as poets know the words 
 
 which please the ear; 
 I'd write you messages of joy, throughout 
 
 each coming year; 
 And always, aye, forever, where'er I'd 
 
 chance to go, 
 I'd send you Love's sweet tokens — could 
 
 I like poets know. 
 
 Alas! I aint no poet, dear, but I'll stick 
 
 'round and try 
 To see the tootsey-wootsev love that's 
 
 shining in your eye: 
 I'll do the lovey-dovey act the best that 
 
 I know' how; 
 And be "your man," by heck! and thank the 
 
 Lord that 3'ou're my "frow." 
 
THE HUMAN MAINSPRING 
 
 I've heard it said by some old sage 
 Who lived back in another age, 
 
 How, after careful thought he learned, 
 
 The great success for which men yearned, 
 
 All centered on the way they wound 
 
 The spring which kept them going 'round. 
 
 In many lives, the old chap said. 
 
 All chances for success have fled, 
 
 By not adhering to the rule 
 
 That's taught in ev'ry common school, 
 
 'Bout winding up our spring each day — 
 But, always in the proper way. 
 
 So, by this reas'ning one can see, 
 The motive pow^er in you and me 
 
 May take us forward, or reverse. 
 
 Bring Fortune's smile or Failure's curse. 
 
 It all depends upon the way 
 
 We wind our mainspring day by day. 
 
GOLDEN GLOW 
 
 Some folks are fond o' purple, an* 
 
 others like the blue 
 Thet gleams from out th' heavens where th* 
 
 stars are shinin' through: 
 I've heerd some fellers rave 'bout red, 
 
 but I would hev you know, 
 I favor most the yaller of th' purty 
 golden glow. 
 
 Now perhaps it ain't their color alone 
 
 thet 'peals t' me; 
 But somehow them old poisies are most 
 
 awful good to see: 
 They carry me back yonder in a rapt'rous, 
 
 wondrous spell, — 
 An' they sort o' whisper sweetly of where 
 
 I useter dwell. 
 
 I fancy jest beside 'em I kin see 
 
 a little face 
 Beneath a pink sunbonnet, an' in dreams 
 
 I take an' place 
 A tiny hand within my own an' breathe 
 
 th' old vows o'er, — 
 T* be her lover always an' t' leave 
 her never more. 
 
 So you may hev th' purple of th' violet, 
 
 an* red 
 Of rose, an' blue thet greets you in th* 
 
 heavens overhead; 
 But I will choose the yaller, an I'll 
 
 spend an hour or so. 
 With my little boyhood sweetheart — ^beside 
 
 th* golden glow. 
 
DRIFTING 
 
 There is sure a lot of floaters 
 
 a-driftin' with the tide, 
 Who never use an oar to help as 
 
 'long life's stream they glide. 
 I hev noticed thet they always 
 
 never hev a cent to spend, 
 And gin'relly are lookin' for 
 
 some feller that'll lend. 
 
 'Course the driftin' Ufe is easy, 
 
 but brings reward that's small; 
 When a feller's through the journey 
 
 there's nothin' gained at all. 
 No folks never seek a drifter, and 
 
 no one seems to ceire 
 Ef he's comin' or he's goin' or 
 
 never gets nowhere. 
 
 So's 'long as nothin' comes much 
 from driftin' with the flow. 
 You'd best head up the river 
 
 and buckle in and row. 
 Of course your hands'U blister, 
 
 but that won't count, I guess, 
 When you're landed in the harbor — 
 the harbor of Success. 
 
I LIKE THE OLD FRIENDS BEST 
 
 When I get t' thinkin' sometimes, about 
 
 th' days of old, 
 Or list'nin* t' some story of th' past 
 
 that's bein' told, 
 I find my heart a-beatin' in time t' 
 
 thoughts express'd, — 
 I guess it's 'cause I somehow kinda 
 
 like th' old friends best. 
 
 Of course they know our ev'ry fault and 
 
 all about th* past; 
 Just when we couldn't pay our bills, or 
 
 when we lived too fast: 
 They knew th' gals who jilted us, but, 
 
 still they've stood th' test. 
 And, while other folks may knock *em— 
 
 I like th' old friends best. 
 
 I aint agen th' makin' of new friends, 
 
 oh no, not me; 
 A feller can't have more'n he needs — 
 
 on that we'll all agree; 
 But, as you go along Life's road, allow 
 
 me to suggest, 
 A plan that works out well is jest t' 
 
 like th' old friends best. 
 
THE OLD-TIME VILLAGE 3TORE 
 
 They wuz seated 'round th' wood fire, 
 in th' old-time village store; — < 
 
 You hev seen thet aggregation which 
 assembled years afore 
 
 Them new rural routes wuz started, an' 
 th* farmers liked t' go 
 
 Down t' git th' mail an' papers, — an* 
 converse an hour 'r so. 
 
 Old man Watkins touched th' "poor box," 
 
 fer a pipeful uv th' weed, 
 An' opined 'twas gittin' 'round t' where 
 
 he'd buy his garden seed; — 
 An' then th' talk veered 'round a bit an* 
 
 settled down once more 
 On Blaine an' Logan who was runnin' back 
 
 in eighty-four. 
 
 Deacon Snippers stroked his galways as he 
 
 cleared his throat an' spat 
 *Pon th' stove, an slyly squinted out 
 
 from underneath his hat, 
 An' allowed thet Grover Cleveland, "hed a 
 
 splendid show t' win;" — 
 Then he wiped th' stray t'baccer, — ^on his 
 
 coat sleeve — from his chin. 
 
 Time hez gone, an* with it taken all 
 
 them good old fashioned men; 
 Gee! I'd like t' be a-settin' list'nin' 
 
 t' their talk agen! 
 Why, I'd almost trade my future fer t* 
 
 grasp their hands once more 
 Down where hearts wuz beatin' loyal, 
 
 'round the old-time village store. 
 
DE TURKEY'S ROOSTIN' HIGH 
 
 When de col' wind ob November am 
 
 a-whirlin* roun' de farm; 
 An* de mellerness ob autumn lends 
 
 its sweet enchantin' charm; 
 When golden punkins 'pear ter grin 
 
 as a feller passes by, 
 I hab noticed dat de turkeys gits 
 
 ter roostin* moughty high. 
 
 Den I sez ter my ole mammy as she 
 
 mixes up de dough 
 Fer de buckwheats in de mornin*, 
 
 I sez "Honey, doncher know, 
 "It's nearin* ob de time to thank 
 
 de ole Lord dat you and I 
 "Is spared to live agen *til now, 
 
 when de turkey's roostin* high.** 
 
 De best thing 'bout Thanksgivin* Day, 
 
 fer de folks dat's old is when, 
 De chilluns come and bring de babes 
 
 to de ole home once agen. 
 An* so we watch de yallerin* ob de 
 
 com and heab a sigh, 
 Fer de joy dats boun* ter f oiler — 
 
 when de turkey*s roostin' high. 
 
OUR OLD LAKE SHORE 
 
 There's lots o' folks who seem t* think 
 
 they ought t' go from home, 
 An' I've met some who've bragged about 
 
 th' fact they'd been in Rome. 
 It may be satisfyin' but I never found 
 
 much more 
 Real comfort anyw^here than down along 
 
 our. old lake shore. 
 
 Now take it 'long in August when th' 
 
 mercury goes high, — 
 Say up around th' ninety mark an' folks 
 
 'ud like t' die 
 T' git away from sufferin' as I hev 
 
 said before, — 
 A feller finds real comfort down along 
 
 our old lake shore. 
 
 There aint much style or beauty, jest a 
 
 shanty here an' there; 
 But, it takes me oflF t* dreamland as a 
 
 soothin' kind of cdr 
 Comes floatin' o'er th* water — an* our 
 
 people by th* score 
 Jest meander down fer comfort along 
 
 our old lake shore. 
 
 Do you know I can't help hopin' thet 
 
 when this life is done. 
 An* I with all th' others go a-marchin* 
 
 one by one 
 Up t* th* seat o' jedgment in bey on . 
 
 th' p)early door, 
 I'll land where 'taint no hotter than along 
 
 our old lake shore. 
 
TWO TYPES 
 
 Old Samuel Crosby had a way 
 
 Of livin* right — he used to say, 
 That he hoped he'd never live to know, 
 
 The time when he would have to go 
 Around a block, jest for fear he'd meet 
 
 Some feller w^hom he'd chanced to cheat. 
 He wasn't rich — but he didn't care — 
 
 Nobody said that he wasn't square. 
 
 In the same old hamlet. Elder Flagg 
 
 Stood 'round the corner stores; he'd brag 
 How he'd "got square" with some one who 
 
 Had been a-laying to ketch him too. 
 He'd chuckle and rub his hands in glee. 
 
 And wink his eye, and say, "you see 
 "By heck, there's not many w^ho'll compare 
 
 "With me, by jing, in gittin' square." 
 
 Now maybe you in the days gone by. 
 
 Have known such men, the same as I: 
 They breathed each day of the self same air, 
 
 But when it came to being square — 
 Their thoughts were as diff'rent as could be; 
 
 It aWays used to puzzle me. 
 To know how the Elder'd scheme and pray 
 
 To square himself on the Judgment Day. 
 
THE OLD BRONZE BUTTON 
 
 I know it isn't purty, still it means 
 
 a lot t' me, 
 With its somber, dull appearance an' 
 
 pure simplicity: 
 But it symbolizes victory, an* that 
 
 is why I gloat 
 With pride upon the old bronze button 
 here upon my coat. 
 
 It cost a lot t' get it too, of blood, 
 
 an' tears, an strife; 
 It tells a tale of shot an' shell, an' 
 
 loss of youthful life; 
 Of parting sighs an' muffled drums, — 
 
 where Freedom's strong arm smote; — 
 It's dear t' me, the old bronze button 
 
 here upon my coat. 
 
 An' while it isn't purty, well that 
 
 doesn't count, you know. 
 With fellers when they're old like me, 
 
 their hair as white as snow: — 
 But, 'cause it tells me o'er this land 
 
 Old Glory e'er will float, 
 I love t' w^ear the old bronze button 
 
 here upon my coat. 
 
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 Where have you gone, Jim Riley, an' why 
 
 did you go away? 
 The world is sad w^ithout you, an' our 
 
 heads are bowed t'day: 
 We seek you w^here we knew you in th' 
 
 days of long ago, 
 But you answer not our callin' — ^where 
 
 are you? Let us know. 
 
 Have you gone t' "Orphant Annie," or 
 
 t' th' "Home Folks," Jim? 
 Are you out at "Old Aunt Mary's," or 
 
 settin' on th' rim 
 Of thet dear "Old Swimmin* Hole," where 
 
 we w^ent in times of yore, 
 A-dreamin' of "The Days Gone By," — ^won't 
 
 you come back no more? 
 
 Perhaps you're closely snuggled where 
 
 th' honeysuckles tw^ine, 
 Beside her whom you told us was "That Old 
 
 Sweetheart Of Mine:" 
 An* maybe workin* near you in his good 
 
 old fashioned way 
 "The Raggedy Man" is mo win' a field of 
 
 wondrous hay. 
 
 When you gathered all th' sunshine an' 
 
 mixed it with th* mirth 
 Of th* children an' th' flow'rs of this 
 
 cold an' dreary earth. 
 You won our hearts Jim Riley, an* that's 
 
 why we loved you so, — 
 But we know you'll make folks happy, 
 
 where'er you've chose t* go. 
 
So, fare thee well, Jim Riley, we can 
 
 guess where you have gone: 
 May angels lull you off t' sleep an' 
 
 waken you at dawn 
 A-playin' on their harps of gold, with 
 
 notes as sw^eet an' true. 
 As th* tinkle of th' drippin' of tiny 
 
 drops of dew. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS PRAYER 
 
 Oh Lord, on this great Christmas eve, I pray, 
 That You will grant me light to see the way 
 
 That You would have me go. 
 Unblind my eyes that I my faults may see; 
 And teach me ev'ry hour to honor Thee, 
 
 While I am here below. 
 
 Give me, my Savior, strength to serve each friend 
 And all my fellow men, until the end 
 
 Your beck'ning hand 1 see — 
 As Thou didst serve. And, grant that I may do, 
 For those, who, weak and falt'ring prove untrue, 
 
 As Thou h£ist done for me. 
 
 Each day which is to come, with me abide; 
 Aid me to rise above Life's surging tide, 
 
 And profit by each fall. 
 For all I have, I offer thanks this hour; 
 In all I do, I recognize Thy pow'r; 
 
 Great King and Lord of all. 
 
AWAKENED MEMORIES 
 
 I hev heard th' opry music thet was 
 
 made far folks who's taste 
 Is cultivated fer that trash, but I've 
 
 no time t' w^aste 
 Upon them high falutin' tunes — I'd 
 
 ruther pay my gold, 
 To hear agen them airs I loved so well 
 
 in days of old. 
 
 There's one that alius thrills me, 'cause 
 
 it's sweeter than th' rest; 
 An' of all th' old-time music, it seems 
 
 t' suit me best; 
 I think now^ how I sung it, how it filled 
 
 my soul with bliss — 
 "Do you love me, Molly darlin'?"- — an* 
 
 she answered with a kiss. 
 
 "Stars are shinin', Molly darlin';" — clear 
 
 the echoes come to me. 
 Through th' mystic haze of mem'ry, and I 
 
 fondly fancy thee 
 Settin* here within my study, livin* o'er 
 
 life's sweetest dream. 
 As we planned it, Molly darlin', — down 
 
 along th' wildwood stream. 
 
 ''Tell me Molly that you love me," — I 
 
 will ne'er forget th' words, — 
 Sweeter than th' breath of roses; sweeter 
 
 than th' trill of birds. — 
 Other songs may come t' greet me, but 
 
 I'll alius cling t' this, — 
 "Do you love me, Molly darlin'? Let 
 
 your answer be a kiss." 
 
ALONG IN AUGUS' TIME 
 
 Some folks is moughty pa'shal tuh de 
 
 fiel's ob wintry snow: 
 An' othahs tuh de Springtime when de 
 
 flow'rs begin tuh grow: 
 But, Ise a-Iongin' evah fo' dat 
 
 season mos' sublime, 
 When de katydids am singin' — along 
 
 in Angus' time. 
 
 An' yo' know 'twas long in Augus' 
 
 'way down in Alabam,' 
 Ah fust done called yo' Liza, an' yo' 
 
 done call meh Sam: 
 An' yo' whispah'd w^ords was sweeter *n 
 
 de tinklin', silbry chime 
 Ob de weddin' bells ob Heaben — along 
 in Augus' time. 
 
 So Ise prayin' tuh mah Sabior dat when 
 
 dis life is o'er, 
 An' we all am gone a-sleepin' tuh nevah 
 
 wake no more, 
 He'll let meh res' fo'evah whaih de 
 
 honeysuckles climb, 
 Jes' same's like when Ah won mah Lize — 
 
 along in Augus' time. 
 
PEONIES 
 
 My mother called 'em "pi-nies" in th' 
 
 days of long ago; 
 As she used to wander slowly down 
 
 w^here th' blossoms grow^: 
 An* while I've found in latter years 
 
 she blundered w^ith the name, 
 I somehow like t' think of them as she 
 did, just the same. 
 
 You see it doesn't matter when a feller's 
 
 gittin* long; 
 To where he's sort o' list'nin' fer th' 
 
 ringin' of th' gong 
 That'll summon him on yonder — that is, 
 
 I mean t' say, — 
 He rather likes t' live again, back in 
 
 his boyhood day. 
 
 An* so while others choose t' call *em 
 
 peonies today; 
 They kinder lose their charm fer me when 
 
 mentioned in thet way. 
 That's why I call 'em **pi-nies" an* I 
 
 know that you'll agree. 
 My mother's name fer them old flow'rs is 
 
 good enough fer me. 
 
HE'S ONLY A BOY 
 
 He's only a boy, a freckled faced boy; 
 
 His hands aren't always clean. 
 He's been told and told that little boys, 
 
 Should not be heard — just seen. 
 But still, he is only a boy, and so 
 
 Until he grows to a man, 
 Let's see that he's just a wholesome boy, 
 
 And help him all we can. 
 
 He is only a boy, and yet his heart 
 
 Responds with the same great joy, 
 ,That filled our hearts, when someone remarked, 
 
 "You'll soon be a man, my boy." 
 As his little mind unfolds, and he grasps 
 
 The work he'll do when a man. 
 Let's see as a boy, he has a chance — 
 
 And help him all we can. 
 
 Now we all are boys, just grown up you know; 
 
 Our hands aren't always clean: 
 But God won't say on the judgment day — 
 
 "You're not to be heard — ^just seen." 
 As our suppliant cry goes up to Him, 
 
 As He sees a poor w^eak man. 
 Let's hope He will overlook our faults. 
 
 And help us all He can. 
 
MORNIN' GLORIES 
 
 I hev seen th* sort o' posies thet 
 
 some folks rave about; 
 Th' kind thet grows in under glass, an' 
 
 others thet grow out: 
 Chrysanthemums, carnations an' lillies 
 
 pure an' white, — 
 But t' me th' mornin' glory's about 
 
 th' nicest sight. 
 
 When I look dow^n in th' center o' one 
 
 o' them old flow^'rs, 
 I see a little cottage neath its vine 
 
 enclustered bow'rs: 
 I live my boyhood over in a dreamy sort 
 
 o' w^ay, — 
 So, I like th' wondrous glories that 
 
 bloom at break o' day. 
 
 'Twas in th' dusky shadder o' th' mornin* 
 
 glory vine, 
 I held th' hand o' Molly as I begged her 
 
 t' be mine: — 
 I bless the Lord thet made 'em, — 'cause 
 
 she answ^ered with a kiss. 
 An' plucked a blossom, saying, — "May our 
 
 love be pure as this." 
 
 Now you may have the fancy flow'rs thet 
 
 other people grow 
 By steam in cold December time away from 
 
 w^inds thet blow^: 
 But, I will choose th* blossoms thet in 
 
 th' breezes sway, — 
 Th* wondrous mornin* glories that awake 
 
 at break o' day. 
 
AS WE CLIMB LIFE'S HILL 
 
 I met an ancient trav'ler on Life's 
 
 downward path, as I 
 Pushed on to win the laurels at the 
 
 hilltop near the sky. 
 His step was slow and falt'ring and 
 
 his eye no longer bright, 
 While I had youth and vigor, with 
 
 a heart and spirits light. 
 
 We tarried by the roadside while I 
 
 listened to the tale, 
 Of he who'd reached the summit and 
 
 journeyed toward the vale. 
 I learned the joys of living come to 
 
 mortals, as they trace 
 The patlis which lead them upward — 
 
 when the sunshine's in their face. 
 
 The lesson which I gathered from this 
 
 man, I'll give to you; — 
 "Just keep your soul a-singing and 
 
 your heart a-beating true; 
 "Keep a-smiling, laugh at trouble and 
 
 drive away each frown; 
 "Plant the rose-trees going upward, 
 
 pick the blossoms coming down." 
 
DOWN ON PEARCE'S CORNER 
 
 Surest signs of Spring I know's when 
 
 th* sun gits up, 'bout noon; 
 An' mos* folks hez hed their lunch an* 
 
 er whisselin' a tune; 
 Jes* defyin' northeast blasts, solemn 
 
 like az eny mourner — 
 Are those fellers who stand 'round, 
 
 down on Pearce's Corner. 
 
 'Long th' south side o' th place aint 
 
 no chilly blowin' breeze 
 Hits their tender skins, they stand, gittin' 
 
 all th' sun they please. 
 Spittin' 'baccer juice an' cussin', every 
 
 one a scorner 
 Of th' law^ against such things — 
 
 down on Pearce's Corner. 
 
 Politics is all thrashed o'er; ordinances 
 
 er passed an' beat; 
 Ev'ry woman's past is raked az she wanders 
 
 down th* street. 
 But, they're harbingers of Spring, and, we'd 
 
 be forlorner 
 Ef th' cops would chase 'em 'way — 
 
 down on Pearce's Corner. 
 
FOR HIMSELF 
 
 Old Deacon Squeers was a fine old man — 
 
 For himself. 
 He seemed to work right along God's plan — 
 
 For himself. 
 On Sunday morn' I have often heard 
 Him weep as he read the holy word, 
 And pray that the judgment be deferred — 
 
 For himself. 
 
 There wasn't a thing he wouldn't do — 
 
 For himself. 
 If he got an inch he wanted two — 
 
 For himself. 
 When the neighbors thrashed he'd call to say 
 How sad he was that he couldn't stay — 
 "He had something else to do that day" — 
 
 For himself. 
 
 And so the old deacon lived and died — 
 
 For himself. 
 And when we planted him, no one cried — 
 
 For himself. 
 And I'll bet a hat, if the story old 
 About Heaven's street as I've heard told 
 Is true, that the deacon's got the gold — 
 
 For himself. 
 
OCTOBER 
 
 Blessings on thee old October with 
 
 your crisp and bracing air; 
 And your trees of brownish color, 
 
 with a green one here and there. 
 Mystic haze that o'er the meadow and 
 
 the woodland seems to dwell, — 
 Parting incense to the songsters, who 
 
 will soon bid us farewell. 
 
 Nature comes to join October, comes 
 to claim again her own; 
 
 Comes to reap the golden harvest of 
 the things which she has grown. 
 
 But it brings a touch of sadness, when 
 the summer starts to wane 
 
 And we hug her closel}'^ to us hoping 
 that she might remain. 
 
 In each life comes old October, when 
 
 the grain is gathered in; 
 Lucky is the man who's owner of an 
 
 overflow^ing bin. 
 Read the lesson left by others, whom 
 
 the olden past has know^n — 
 When October comes, my brother, 
 
 "ye shall reap as ye have sown . " 
 
THE MEN WE WANT 
 
 There aint no place fer weaklin's in 
 
 th' struggle of today; — 
 Th' men who turn an' run fer cover 
 
 when they'd orter stay: — 
 Fair-weather men are not th' kind t' 
 
 win a stubborn fight; 
 Th' world wants those who will not 
 
 quit because it's nearin' night. 
 
 When to th' Rubicon, Great Caesar came, 
 
 he wavered not; 
 No falt'rin', weak-kneed action was t' 
 
 cast its with'rin' blot 
 Upon th' name of him who thrilled th' 
 
 hearts of ancient Rome: — 
 He crossed th' stream, an' as we say, 
 
 "He brought th* bacon home." 
 
 When Gen'rel Grant quit tannin' hides 
 
 an' took t' drillin' men; 
 He never stopped t' question w^hy, or 
 
 where, or how, or when; 
 But, when th' smoke was thickest, an* 
 
 victory almost gone. 
 He fought throughout th' dark'nin' hours 
 
 an' w^on th' scrap at dawn. 
 
 So, with all of hist'ry 'hind us, — 
 
 its great lights here an* there; 
 We're gettin' quite pertickler, an' 
 
 unless you're on th' square 
 An* possess a lot of courage to earn 
 
 our praise an' pay, 
 Pass on, old top, you're only standin* 
 
 in some good man's way. 
 
WHEN DE SUMMAH GOES 
 
 When summah-time am waning an* de 
 
 crickets' song grows faint; 
 An* de leabes is changin* color as 
 
 Nature gins tuh paint 
 De woods an' fiel's in Autumn dress, 
 
 mah heart is always sad, — 
 Mah thoughts goes wanderin' backward 
 
 tuh days we useter had. 
 
 Ah see de fiel's ob cotton in de balmy 
 
 sunny land; 
 An' sweet magnolia blossoms by de 
 
 perfumed breezes fanned: 
 An' mah deah ole Mammy restin' jest 
 
 laik she useter do, 
 Neaf de ivy-covered trellis w^ith de 
 
 sunshine peekin' froo. 
 
 But spesh'ly comes a picture ob a 
 
 little gal 1 knew; 
 Whose eyes w^as full ob sunshine as de 
 
 heabens was ob blue: 
 Whose vsrords was silbery music; w^hose 
 
 smile w^as joy divine; — 
 Way down in Ole Kaintucky, — w^hen she 
 
 tole me she'd be mine. 
 
 So when de summah's waning an* de 
 
 yaller's in de trees; 
 An de crickets' chirr comes fainter 
 
 upon de eb'nin' breeze; 
 Ah set an' hoi' her han' a bit an* 
 
 lib de ole days froo, — 
 
 When huh eyes was full ob sunshine 
 
 as heaben w^as ob blue. 
 
HUSKIN* BEES 
 
 When crickets cease t' sing their song; 
 An' days git short, an' nights git long; 
 When harvest grains are gathered in 
 An* safely stowed in crib an' bin; 
 When songsters southward wend their way 
 'Neath skies of cold an' dreary gray; — 
 I view th' unclothed, somber trees, 
 An' dream of old-time huskin' bees. 
 
 Gee! how I useter like t' go 
 
 With her, — a drivin' 'long so slow 
 
 Beneath th' silv'ry Autumn moon, 
 
 T' where th' merry, happy tune 
 
 Of laughter from th' buskers came 
 
 ,T' greet our ears, — an' play a game 
 
 Of blind man's buff, — an' gently squeeze 
 
 Her hand; — at them old huskin' bees. 
 
 A.n' one night, comin' home quite late, 
 1 spunked right up an* called her Kate; — 
 An' asked her fer t' call me, Jim; — 
 An when th' moon w^as kinder dim 
 Behind a cloud, an' couldn't shine, 
 Sle promised, always t' be mine: 
 So of all social functions, please, 
 Gi^e me mv share in huskin' bees. 
 
BEIN' GOOD 
 
 We's a gonna have a Christmus at our 
 
 house by an' by; 
 An' Mamma sez ef I am good, an' don't 
 
 pout 'round an' cry, 
 She's gonna tell old Santy Claus to 
 
 come an' put for me 
 A lots of purty things I want, upon 
 
 our Christmus tree. 
 She sez 'at when I'm sleepin' sound, 
 
 an' brother's sleepin' too; 
 Nen old Santy'll come a crawlin' right 
 
 down our chimbley flue. 
 
 An' so from now 'til Christmus time, 
 
 I'm gonna try to be 
 Dest the sweetest little girlie 'at 
 
 ever you did see. 
 An' ef some boy sticks out his tongue 
 
 an' makes fun of my curls, 
 An' sez 'at boys is bestest, an' are 
 
 twice as good as girls; 
 Or, plagues mv cat, or steals my gum, 
 
 I'll 'tend 'at I don't care; — 
 'Cause old Santy might be watchin'. Ma 
 
 sez he's everywhere! 
 
 I'ln gonna mind my teacher, an' I'll 
 
 wash my hands an' face; 
 I'll bow my head when Grandma says, 
 
 "be still vv^hile I say grace:" 
 An* I wont sass our neighbors, 'cause 
 
 dear Santy CIbit' rnicjht hear, — 
 Ma sez 'at w^hen I least suspect, he's 
 
 hiding somewhere near. 
 Before I go to sleep each night, I'll 
 
 pray for poor folks too; 
 An' ask God dest to send old Santy 
 
 down their chimbley flue. 
 
SHAKE DOWN YOUR FIRE 
 
 Don't sit around and curse your luck 
 
 because you didn't win! 
 You've got to make another start; 
 
 and if you don't begin 
 Some other chap will head you off 
 
 and beat you to the goal; — 
 Shake down your fire, increase your steam, 
 
 by throwing on some coal. 
 
 What if you didn't hit the mark 
 
 you tried to make today? 
 What if some stronger man was found 
 
 a-standing in your way? 
 Your time is sure to come, strive on! 
 
 don't sit around and wail! 
 To men who make their mark in life 
 
 there's no such word as "fail." 
 
 The best of men will fall at times, — 
 
 'twas meant to be that way 
 By Him who planned the universe, — 
 
 so, listen when I say. 
 No matter what your failings be 
 
 don't mope around and pine; 
 The world has little use for folks 
 
 who snap, and snarl, and whine. 
 
 I'd rather shake the trembling hand 
 
 and help onto his feet 
 The struisgler, than to bask in smiles 
 
 of millionaires I meet. 
 And so I say to those who've failed 
 
 at times to reach the goal, 
 Shake down your fire, increase your steam, 
 
 by throwing on some coal. 
 
JUNE 
 
 When de eb'nin' shadders greet meh an' 
 
 de sun hab sunk tuh rest; 
 An' de mammy-bird am cuddlin' all her 
 
 babies neaf her breast; 
 When de chirrup ob de crickets sing 
 
 ole Nature's sweetes' chune; 
 Ah bless de Lord who 'lowed meh fer 
 
 tuh lib until 'twas June. 
 
 Hit was June-time dat was spoon-time 
 
 in de days w^hen we was young; 
 When we sat long side de cabin whaih 
 
 de honeysuckles clung; 
 An' Ah begged yo' please tuh tell meh, 
 
 ef yo' loved meh jes' as true 
 As de sta's what w^as a-peekin' froo de 
 
 tree, — a-watchin' you. 
 
 Now Ah caint persarsly question ob de 
 
 Lord dat rules us all; 
 Kase Ah s'pose He hab a reason fer de 
 
 Winter, Spring an' Fall. 
 But, ef He had asked mah 'pinion, Ah 
 
 would give it moughty soon, — 
 An' Ah'd coax Him — ef He'd listen, — fer 
 
 tuh mek it all like June. 
 
BACK TO THE LAND 
 
 When father leased the old homestead 
 
 and moved to town, we boys 
 All thought we nevermore would know 
 
 aught else but earthly joys. 
 There wouldn't be the cows to milk, 
 
 nor any corn to hoe. 
 And when we wanted, we could just 
 
 pack up our grips and go. 
 
 Well, for about a year or two things 
 
 went along all right. 
 We'd seen most all the picture shows — 
 
 we'd gone most every night. 
 We found a thousand places where we 
 
 easily could spend 
 The money Dad had saved, but, say, 
 
 we hadn't found a friend. 
 
 We have had our education, and just 
 
 'twixt me and you. 
 It cost us quite a fortune, but — 
 
 we'ye learned a thing or two. 
 So, now we're all a-going back to 
 
 where the skies are blue, 
 To where the neighbors love us with 
 
 a love that's ever true. 
 
 Old Daddy's dancing 'round in glee, 
 
 and Mother sings all day — 
 I'll bet the farm's been lonesome 
 
 while they have been away. 
 "Man made the city," preachers say,^ 
 
 and "God, the pastures green." 
 And, our folks wouldn't trade the farm 
 
 for any town they've seen. 
 
NO OP'RY MUSIC FER ME 
 
 Op'ry music is t' me, 
 Nuthin' much ez I can see. 
 How some folks '11 sit all night, 
 List'nin' t' th' "stars" take flight 
 
 Up past upper G; 
 Must be I believe jest those 
 Who are showin' off their clothes. 
 Or some jewelry they've got — 
 When they claim t' like sech rot — 
 
 What else kin it be? 
 
 'Taint like them sweet songs uv old — 
 "Silver Threads Among Th' Gold," 
 "Nellie Gray, " an' "Bonnie Doon," 
 An' that other wondrous tune — 
 
 Comin' Thro' th' Rye." 
 Aint no op'ry music writ 
 Which has quite compared with it. 
 An' my Mother, oh! how she, % 
 
 Sweetly sung 'em all t' me — 
 
 In th' days gone by. 
 
 We don't want no op'ry air 
 When we'd drive away dull care. 
 We jest hum some song which we 
 Learned t' know^, at Mother's knee — 
 
 Fer t' cure th' blues. 
 I'll bet anything I own, 
 When a feller's all alone, 
 Pinin' fer some friend w^hat's gone 
 Where it's everlastin' dawn — 
 
 TTiat's the kind he'll choose. 
 
BUCKWHEAT CAKES 
 
 Tell you what I like these days, 'bout 
 
 th' time 1 crawl from bed, 
 An' git on my duds an' go down t' where 
 
 our brood is fed; 
 That is, what 1 mean to say's, I don't 
 
 think there's nuthin' takes 
 Sech a grip on me, by heck! az them good 
 
 old buckwheat cakes. 
 
 Grape-fruit an' them high-toned things, 
 
 like az not hez got some charm 
 Fer th' folks who never aint, lived upon 
 
 an old-time farm; 
 An' haint had no Mother what stands afore 
 
 th' stove an' bakes, 
 'Till their fit fer eny King, good old 
 
 homemade buckw^heat cakes. 
 
 Gosh all hemlock! hick'rv bark! How I 
 
 useter set an' gaze 
 At that griddle, all greased slick with 
 
 a pork-rind, in them days 
 When my appetite was strong, an' I had 
 
 t' put on brakes, 
 Fear uv founderin' myself, eatin' them 
 
 old buckwheat cakes. 
 
 Take your pre-di-gested foods! none uv 
 
 them fer me, I say: 
 An' them shredded things at look like 
 
 a bunch uv musty hay. 
 But fer me, jest let me hear, my old 
 
 Mammy say, "Land sakes! 
 "Jim, my boy, that beats th* world, you've 
 
 et eighteen buckwheat cakes." 
 
THE JOY OF MOTORING 
 
 A motor car is sure a joy. I've leeirned 
 
 to know such is the case: 
 It takes a fellow far from home and often 
 
 brings him face to face 
 With things he never dreamed could be, and 
 
 all goes like a marriage bell, 
 'Til something happens to the thing, and 
 
 then it makes him feel like, — well 
 
 As I was saying, all's serene w^hile gas and 
 
 tires and spark are right: 
 A fellow's mind is sweet and pure, his hopes 
 
 rise high, his heart is light: 
 He speeds along the countryside, and thinks 
 
 no sport can this excel, — 
 Just then a blow-out greets his ear! he 
 
 throttles down and says: "Oh! w^ell 
 
 "It's just a little trouble p'raps, a worn 
 
 out casing which can be 
 "Quite quickly changed," he jacks her up 
 
 and takes the inner out to see. 
 He puts a new one in and pumps the blamed 
 
 thing up, but stops to dwell 
 Between the strokes, and w^ipe his brow, and 
 
 mutters, "Gee! it's hot as" — well 
 
 I said before, there is no sport w^hich 
 
 can in any way compare 
 With motoring along the roads to breathe 
 
 the fresh and balmy air: 
 To see where lives the farmer-man who 
 
 raises corn and oats to sell, — 
 That is, I mean it's really nice, when 
 
 ev'rything is running well. 
 
BILL SMITHERS 
 
 Bill Smithers was a mighty man — 
 
 To hear him tell it. 
 For ev'ry problem he'd a plan — 
 
 To hear him tell it. 
 Why, I have seen him stand all day, 
 And argue just to have his way — 
 He'd talked all night if folks 'ud stay 
 
 To hear him tell it. 
 
 The men he knew were always wrong- 
 To hear him tell it. 
 It wasn't hard to get along — 
 
 The way he'd tell it. 
 Folks all got to know him, so 
 As soon's he started in, they'd go, — 
 He'd pointed out the facts you know — 
 To hear him tell it. 
 
 Heaven w^as made for chaps like Bill — 
 
 To hear him tell it. 
 But, his religion spread a chill — 
 
 Whene'er he'd tell it. 
 He said, "don't let your left hand see 
 "What t'other does;" and I'll agree 
 He to that doctrine stuck, by gee! 
 
 I've heard him tell it. 
 
 I'll bet it made Saint Peter grin — 
 
 To hear Bill tell it. 
 How crowns were very hard to win — 
 
 As Bill would tell it. 
 I s'pose he still shoots his hot air, 
 Where ev'rything is pure and fair; 
 So deliver me from going there — 
 To hear him tell it. 
 
AND HE WAS RIGHT 
 
 A friend told me — and meant it too; 
 "It's easy for both me and you 
 "To find a lot of work to do;" 
 And he was right. 
 
 Old Deacon Frisbie used to say 
 In his old fashioned Yankee w^ay, — 
 "Th' folks who dance by heck, must pay;"— 
 And he was right. 
 
 A wise man once wrote on a wall, — 
 "False pride is sure some day to fall 
 "And leave a fellow feeling small:" 
 And he was right. 
 
 And someone said in language plain, — 
 "There's no great loss without some gain; 
 "And sunshine always follow^s rain:" — 
 And he was right. 
 
 I'd like to live so folks would be 
 Content to say nice things of me; 
 And when I leave, say honestly, — 
 "And he was right." 
 
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