Just Folks. Edgar A. Guest
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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 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 Through
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 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