Part 7

Departed Friends

The dead friends live and always will; Their presence hovers round us still. It seems to me they come to share Each joy or sorrow that we bear. Among the living I can feel The sweet departed spirits steal, And whether it be weal or woe, I walk with those I used to know. I can recall them to my side Whenever I am struggle-tried; I've but to wish for them, and they Come trooping gayly down the way, And I can tell to them my grief And from their presence find relief. In sacred memories below Still live the friends of long ago.

Laughter

Laughter sort o' settles breakfast better than digestive pills; Found it, somehow in my travels, cure for every sort of ills; When the hired help have riled me with their slipshod, careless ways, An' I'm bilin' mad an' cussin' an' my temper's all ablaze, If the calf gets me to laughin' while they're teachin' him to feed Pretty soon I'm feelin' better, 'cause I've found the cure I need.

Like to start the day with laughter; when I've had a peaceful night, An' can greet the sun all smilin', that day's goin' to be all right. But there's nothing goes to suit me, when my system's full of bile; Even horses quit their pullin' when the driver doesn't smile, But they'll buckle to the traces when they hear a glad giddap, Just as though they like to labor for a cheerful kind o' chap.

Laughter keeps me strong an' healthy. You can bet I'm all run down, Fit for doctor folks an' nurses when I cannot shake my frown. Found in farmin' laughter's useful, good for sheep an' cows an' goats; When I've laughed my way through summer, reap the biggest crop of oats. Laughter's good for any business, leastwise so it seems to me Never knew a smilin' feller but was busy as could be.

Sometimes sit an' think about it, ponderin' on the ways of life, Wonderin' why mortals gladly face the toil an care an' strife, Then I come to this conclusion--take it now for what it's worth It's the joy of laughter keeps us plodding on this stretch of earth. Men the fun o' life are seeking--that's the reason for the calf Spillin' mash upon his keeper--men are hungry for a laugh.

The Scoffer

If I had lived in Franklin's time I'm most afraid that I, Beholding him out in the rain, a kite about to fly, And noticing upon its tail the barn door's rusty key, Would, with the scoffers on the street, have chortled in my glee; And with a sneer upon my lips I would have said of Ben, "His belfry must be full of bats. He's raving, boys, again!"

I'm glad I didn't live on earth when Fulton had his dream, And told his neighbors marvelous tales of what he'd do with steam, For I'm not sure I'd not have been a member of the throng That couldn't see how paddle-wheels could shove a boat along. At "Fulton's Folly" I'd have sneered, as thousands did back then, And called the Clermont's architect the craziest of men.

Yet Franklin gave us wonders great and Fulton did the same, And many "boobs" have left behind an everlasting fame. And dead are all their scoffers now and all their sneers forgot And scarce a nickel's worth of good was brought here by the lot. I shudder when I stop to think, had I been living then, I might have been a scoffer, too, and jeered at Bob and Ben.

I am afraid to-day to sneer at any fellow's dream. Time was I thought men couldn't fly or sail beneath the stream. I never call a man a boob who toils throughout the night On visions that I cannot see, because he may be right. I always think of Franklin's trick, which brought the jeers of men. And to myself I say, "Who knows but here's another Ben?"

The Pathway of the Living

The pathway of the living is our ever-present care. Let us do our best to smooth it and to make it bright and fair; Let us travel it with kindness, let's be careful as we tread, And give unto the living what we'd offer to the dead.

The pathway of the living we can beautify and grace; We can line it deep with roses and make earth a happier place. But we've done all mortals can do, when our prayers are softly said For the souls of those that travel o'er the pathway of the dead.

The pathway of the living all our strength and courage needs, There we ought to sprinkle favors, there we ought to sow our deeds, There our smiles should be the brightest, there our kindest words be said, For the angels have the keeping of the pathway of the dead.

Lemon Pie

The world is full of gladness, There are joys of many kinds, There's a cure for every sadness, That each troubled mortal finds. And my little cares grow lighter And I cease to fret and sigh, And my eyes with joy grow brighter When she makes a lemon pie.

When the bronze is on the filling That's one mass of shining gold, And its molten joy is spilling On the plate, my heart grows bold And the kids and I in chorus Raise one glad exultant cry And we cheer the treat before us Which is mother's lemon pie.

Then the little troubles vanish, And the sorrows disappear, Then we find the grit to banish All the cares that hovered near, And we smack our lips in pleasure O'er a joy no coin can buy, And we down the golden treasure Which is known as lemon pie.

The Flag on the Farm

We've raised a flagpole on the farm And flung Old Glory to the sky, And it's another touch of charm That seems to cheer the passer-by, But more than that, no matter where We're laboring in wood and field, We turn and see it in the air, Our promise of a greater yield. It whispers to us all day long, From dawn to dusk: "Be true, be strong; Who falters now with plow or hoe Gives comfort to his country's foe."

It seems to me I've never tried To do so much about the place, Nor been so slow to come inside, But since I've got the flag to face, Each night when I come home to rest I feel that I must look up there And say: "Old Flag, I've done my best, To-day I've tried to do my share." And sometimes, just to catch the breeze, I stop my work, and o'er the trees Old Glory fairly shouts my way: "You're shirking far too much to-day!"

The help have caught the spirit, too; The hired man takes off his cap Before the old red, white and blue, Then to the horses says: "giddap!" And starting bravely to the field He tells the milkmaid by the door: "We're going to make these acres yield More than they've ever done before." She smiles to hear his gallant brag, Then drops a curtsey to the flag. And in her eyes there seems to shine A patriotism that is fine.

We've raised a flagpole on the farm And flung Old Glory to the sky; We're far removed from war's alarm, But courage here is running high. We're doing things we never dreamed We'd ever find the time to do; Deeds that impossible once seemed Each morning now we hurry through. The flag now waves above our toil And sheds its glory on the soil, And boy and man looks up to it As if to say: "I'll do my bit!"

Heroes

There are different kinds of heroes, there are some you hear about. They get their pictures printed, and their names the newsboys shout; There are heroes known to glory that were not afraid to die In the service of their country and to keep the flag on high; There are brave men in the trenches, there are brave men on the sea, But the silent, quiet heroes also prove their bravery.

I am thinking of a hero that was never known to fame, Just a manly little fellow with a very common name; He was freckle-faced and ruddy, but his head was nobly shaped, And he one day took the whipping that his comrades all escaped. And he never made a murmur, never whimpered in reply; He would rather take the censure than to stand and tell a lie.