Just Folks. Edgar A. Guest

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СКАЧАТЬ 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

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      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

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      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

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      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

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      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;

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