It’s just a shiny piece of wood, with letters printed here an’ there,
An’ has a little table which you put your fingers on with care,
An’ then you sit an’ whisper low some question that you want to know. 
Then by an’ by the spirit comes an’ makes the little table go,
An’ Ma, she starts to giggle then an’ Pa just grumbles out, “Oh, Lord! 
I wish you hadn’t bought this thing.  We didn’t need a ouija board.”

“You’re movin’ it!” says Ma to Pa.  “I’m not!” says Pa, “I know it’s you;
You’re makin’ it spell things to us that you know very well aren’t true.” 
“That isn’t so,” says Ma to him, “but I am certain from the way
The ouija moves that you’re the one who’s tellin’ it just what to say.” 
“It’s just ’lectricity,” says Pa; “like batteries all men are stored,
But anyhow I don’t believe we ought to have a ouija board.”

One night Ma got it out, an’ said, “Now, Pa, I want you to be fair,
Just keep right still an’ let your hands rest lightly on the table there. 
Oh, Ouija, tell me, tell me true, are we to buy another car,
An’ will we get it very soon?” she asked.  “Oh, tell us from afar.” 
“Don’t buy a car,” the letters spelled, “the price this year you can’t
    afford.” 
Then Ma got mad, an’ since that time she’s never used the ouija board.

The Call of the Woods

I must get out to the woods again, to the whispering trees and the birds
    awing,
Away from the haunts of pale-faced men, to the spaces wide where strength
    is king;
I must get out where the skies are blue and the air is clean and the rest
    is sweet,
Out where there’s never a task to do or a goal to reach or a foe to meet.

I must get out on the trails once more that wind through shadowy haunts and
    cool,
Away from the presence of wall and door, and see myself in a crystal pool;
I must get out with the silent things, where neither laughter nor hate is
    heard,
Where malice never the humblest stings and no one is hurt by a spoken word.

Oh, I’ve heard the call of the tall white pine, and heard the call of the
    running brook;
I’m tired of the tasks which each day are mine; I’m weary of reading a
    printed book. 
I want to get out of the din and strife, the clang and clamor of turning
    wheel,
And walk for a day where life is life, and the joys are true and the
    pictures real.

Committee Meetings

For this and that and various things
  It seems that men must get together,
To purchase cups or diamond rings
  Or to discuss the price of leather. 
From nine to ten, or two to three,
  Or any hour that’s fast and fleeting,
There is a constant call for me
  To go to some committee meeting.

The church has serious work to do,
  The lodge and club has need of workers,
They ask for just an hour or two—­
  Surely I will not join the shirkers? 
Though I have duties of my own
  I should not drop before completing,
There comes the call by telephone
  To go to some committee meeting.