If I had youth no chains of fear should bind me;I'd brave the heights which older men must shun.I'd leave the well-worn lanes of life behind me,And seek to do what men have never done.Rich prizes wait for those who do not waver;The world needs men to battle for the truth.It calls each hour for stronger hearts and braver.This is the age for those who still have youth!
If I had youth no chains of fear should bind me;I'd brave the heights which older men must shun.I'd leave the well-worn lanes of life behind me,And seek to do what men have never done.Rich prizes wait for those who do not waver;The world needs men to battle for the truth.It calls each hour for stronger hearts and braver.This is the age for those who still have youth!
If I had youth no chains of fear should bind me;I'd brave the heights which older men must shun.I'd leave the well-worn lanes of life behind me,And seek to do what men have never done.Rich prizes wait for those who do not waver;The world needs men to battle for the truth.It calls each hour for stronger hearts and braver.This is the age for those who still have youth!
All things grow lovely in a little while,The brush of memory paints a canvas fair;The dead face through the ages wears a smile,And glorious becomes accomplished care.There's nothing ugly that can live for long,There's nothing constant in the realm of pain;Right always comes to take the place of wrong,Who suffers much shall find the greater gain.Life has a kindly way, despite its tearsAnd all the burdens which its children bear;It crowns with beauty all the troubled yearsAnd soothes the hurts and makes their memory fair.Be brave when days are bitter with despair,Be true when you are made to suffer wrong;Life's greatest joy is an accomplished care,There's nothing ugly that can live for long.
All things grow lovely in a little while,The brush of memory paints a canvas fair;The dead face through the ages wears a smile,And glorious becomes accomplished care.There's nothing ugly that can live for long,There's nothing constant in the realm of pain;Right always comes to take the place of wrong,Who suffers much shall find the greater gain.Life has a kindly way, despite its tearsAnd all the burdens which its children bear;It crowns with beauty all the troubled yearsAnd soothes the hurts and makes their memory fair.Be brave when days are bitter with despair,Be true when you are made to suffer wrong;Life's greatest joy is an accomplished care,There's nothing ugly that can live for long.
All things grow lovely in a little while,The brush of memory paints a canvas fair;The dead face through the ages wears a smile,And glorious becomes accomplished care.
There's nothing ugly that can live for long,There's nothing constant in the realm of pain;Right always comes to take the place of wrong,Who suffers much shall find the greater gain.
Life has a kindly way, despite its tearsAnd all the burdens which its children bear;It crowns with beauty all the troubled yearsAnd soothes the hurts and makes their memory fair.
Be brave when days are bitter with despair,Be true when you are made to suffer wrong;Life's greatest joy is an accomplished care,There's nothing ugly that can live for long.
Last night he said the dead were deadAnd scoffed my faith to scorn;I found him at a tulip bedWhen I passed by at morn."O ho!" said I, "the frost is nearAnd mist is on the hills,And yet I find you planting hereTulips and daffodils.""'Tis time to plant them now," he said,"If they shall bloom in Spring";"But every bulb," said I, "seems dead,And such an ugly thing.""The pulse of life I cannot feel,The skin is dried and brown.Now look!" a bulb beneath my heelI crushed and trampled down.In anger then he said to me:"You've killed a lovely thing;A scarlet blossom that would beSome morning in the Spring.""Last night a greater sin was thine,"To him I slowly said;"You trampled on the dead of mineAnd told me they are dead."
Last night he said the dead were deadAnd scoffed my faith to scorn;I found him at a tulip bedWhen I passed by at morn."O ho!" said I, "the frost is nearAnd mist is on the hills,And yet I find you planting hereTulips and daffodils.""'Tis time to plant them now," he said,"If they shall bloom in Spring";"But every bulb," said I, "seems dead,And such an ugly thing.""The pulse of life I cannot feel,The skin is dried and brown.Now look!" a bulb beneath my heelI crushed and trampled down.In anger then he said to me:"You've killed a lovely thing;A scarlet blossom that would beSome morning in the Spring.""Last night a greater sin was thine,"To him I slowly said;"You trampled on the dead of mineAnd told me they are dead."
Last night he said the dead were deadAnd scoffed my faith to scorn;I found him at a tulip bedWhen I passed by at morn.
"O ho!" said I, "the frost is nearAnd mist is on the hills,And yet I find you planting hereTulips and daffodils."
"'Tis time to plant them now," he said,"If they shall bloom in Spring";"But every bulb," said I, "seems dead,And such an ugly thing."
"The pulse of life I cannot feel,The skin is dried and brown.Now look!" a bulb beneath my heelI crushed and trampled down.
In anger then he said to me:"You've killed a lovely thing;A scarlet blossom that would beSome morning in the Spring."
"Last night a greater sin was thine,"To him I slowly said;"You trampled on the dead of mineAnd told me they are dead."
He was down and out, and his pluck was gone,And he said to me in a gloomy way:"I've wasted my chances, one by one,And I'm just no good, as the people say.Nothing ahead, and my dreams all dust,Though once there was something I might have been,But I wasn't game, and I broke my trust,And I wasn't straight and I wasn't clean.""You're pretty low down," says I to him,"But nobody's holding you there, my friend.Life is a stream where men sink or swim,And the drifters come to a sorry end;But there's two of you living and breathing still—The fellow you are, and he's tough to see,And another chap, if you've got the will,The man that you still have a chance to be."He laughed with scorn. "Is there two of me?I thought I'd murdered the other one.I once knew a chap that I hoped to be,And he was decent, but now he's gone.""Well," says I, "it may seem to youThat life has little of joy in store,But there's always something you still can do,And there's never a man but can try once more.
He was down and out, and his pluck was gone,And he said to me in a gloomy way:"I've wasted my chances, one by one,And I'm just no good, as the people say.Nothing ahead, and my dreams all dust,Though once there was something I might have been,But I wasn't game, and I broke my trust,And I wasn't straight and I wasn't clean.""You're pretty low down," says I to him,"But nobody's holding you there, my friend.Life is a stream where men sink or swim,And the drifters come to a sorry end;But there's two of you living and breathing still—The fellow you are, and he's tough to see,And another chap, if you've got the will,The man that you still have a chance to be."He laughed with scorn. "Is there two of me?I thought I'd murdered the other one.I once knew a chap that I hoped to be,And he was decent, but now he's gone.""Well," says I, "it may seem to youThat life has little of joy in store,But there's always something you still can do,And there's never a man but can try once more.
He was down and out, and his pluck was gone,And he said to me in a gloomy way:"I've wasted my chances, one by one,And I'm just no good, as the people say.Nothing ahead, and my dreams all dust,Though once there was something I might have been,But I wasn't game, and I broke my trust,And I wasn't straight and I wasn't clean."
"You're pretty low down," says I to him,"But nobody's holding you there, my friend.Life is a stream where men sink or swim,And the drifters come to a sorry end;But there's two of you living and breathing still—The fellow you are, and he's tough to see,And another chap, if you've got the will,The man that you still have a chance to be."
He laughed with scorn. "Is there two of me?I thought I'd murdered the other one.I once knew a chap that I hoped to be,And he was decent, but now he's gone.""Well," says I, "it may seem to youThat life has little of joy in store,But there's always something you still can do,And there's never a man but can try once more.
"His Other Chance" From a drawing by W. T. Benda."His Other Chance"From a drawing byW. T. Benda.
"There are always two to the end of time—The fellow we are and the future man.The Lord never meant you should cease to climb,And you can get up if you think you can.The fellow you are is a sorry sight,But you needn't go drifting out to sea.Get hold of yourself and travel right;There's a fellow you've still got a chance to be."
"There are always two to the end of time—The fellow we are and the future man.The Lord never meant you should cease to climb,And you can get up if you think you can.The fellow you are is a sorry sight,But you needn't go drifting out to sea.Get hold of yourself and travel right;There's a fellow you've still got a chance to be."
"There are always two to the end of time—The fellow we are and the future man.The Lord never meant you should cease to climb,And you can get up if you think you can.The fellow you are is a sorry sight,But you needn't go drifting out to sea.Get hold of yourself and travel right;There's a fellow you've still got a chance to be."
I've tried the high-toned specialists, who doctor folks to-day;I've heard the throat man whisper low "Come on now let us spray";I've sat in fancy offices and waited long my turn,And paid for fifteen minutes what it took a week to earn;But while these scientific men are kindly, one and all,I miss the good old doctor that my mother used to call.The old-time family doctor! Oh, I am sorry that he's gone,He ushered us into the world and knew us every one;He didn't have to ask a lot of questions, for he knewOur histories from birth and all the ailments we'd been through.And though as children small we feared the medicines he'd send,The old-time family doctor grew to be our dearest friend.No hour too late, no night too rough for him to heed our call;He knew exactly where to hang his coat up in the hall;He knew exactly where to go, which room upstairs to findThe patient he'd been called to see, and saying: "Never mind,I'll run up there myself and see what's causing all the fuss."It seems we grew to look and lean on him as one of us.He had a big and kindly heart, a fine and tender way,And more than once I've wished that I could call him in to-day.The specialists are clever men and busy men, I know,And haven't time to doctor as they did long years ago;But some day he may come again, the friend that we can call,The good old family doctor who will love us one and all.
I've tried the high-toned specialists, who doctor folks to-day;I've heard the throat man whisper low "Come on now let us spray";I've sat in fancy offices and waited long my turn,And paid for fifteen minutes what it took a week to earn;But while these scientific men are kindly, one and all,I miss the good old doctor that my mother used to call.The old-time family doctor! Oh, I am sorry that he's gone,He ushered us into the world and knew us every one;He didn't have to ask a lot of questions, for he knewOur histories from birth and all the ailments we'd been through.And though as children small we feared the medicines he'd send,The old-time family doctor grew to be our dearest friend.No hour too late, no night too rough for him to heed our call;He knew exactly where to hang his coat up in the hall;He knew exactly where to go, which room upstairs to findThe patient he'd been called to see, and saying: "Never mind,I'll run up there myself and see what's causing all the fuss."It seems we grew to look and lean on him as one of us.He had a big and kindly heart, a fine and tender way,And more than once I've wished that I could call him in to-day.The specialists are clever men and busy men, I know,And haven't time to doctor as they did long years ago;But some day he may come again, the friend that we can call,The good old family doctor who will love us one and all.
I've tried the high-toned specialists, who doctor folks to-day;I've heard the throat man whisper low "Come on now let us spray";I've sat in fancy offices and waited long my turn,And paid for fifteen minutes what it took a week to earn;But while these scientific men are kindly, one and all,I miss the good old doctor that my mother used to call.
The old-time family doctor! Oh, I am sorry that he's gone,He ushered us into the world and knew us every one;He didn't have to ask a lot of questions, for he knewOur histories from birth and all the ailments we'd been through.And though as children small we feared the medicines he'd send,The old-time family doctor grew to be our dearest friend.
No hour too late, no night too rough for him to heed our call;He knew exactly where to hang his coat up in the hall;He knew exactly where to go, which room upstairs to findThe patient he'd been called to see, and saying: "Never mind,I'll run up there myself and see what's causing all the fuss."It seems we grew to look and lean on him as one of us.
He had a big and kindly heart, a fine and tender way,And more than once I've wished that I could call him in to-day.The specialists are clever men and busy men, I know,And haven't time to doctor as they did long years ago;But some day he may come again, the friend that we can call,The good old family doctor who will love us one and all.
I'd like to give 'em all they ask—it hurts to have to answer, "No,"And say they cannot have the things they tell me they are wanting so;Yet now and then they plead for what I know would not be good to giveOr what I can't afford to buy, and that's the hardest hour I live.They little know or understand how happy I would be to grantTheir every wish, yet there are times it isn't wise, or else I can't.And sometimes, too, I can't explain the reason when they question whyTheir pleadings for some passing joy it is my duty to deny.I only know I'd like to see them smile forever on life's way;I would not have them shed one tear or ever meet a troubled day.And I would be content with life and gladly face each dreary task,If I could always give to them the little treasures that they ask.
I'd like to give 'em all they ask—it hurts to have to answer, "No,"And say they cannot have the things they tell me they are wanting so;Yet now and then they plead for what I know would not be good to giveOr what I can't afford to buy, and that's the hardest hour I live.They little know or understand how happy I would be to grantTheir every wish, yet there are times it isn't wise, or else I can't.And sometimes, too, I can't explain the reason when they question whyTheir pleadings for some passing joy it is my duty to deny.I only know I'd like to see them smile forever on life's way;I would not have them shed one tear or ever meet a troubled day.And I would be content with life and gladly face each dreary task,If I could always give to them the little treasures that they ask.
I'd like to give 'em all they ask—it hurts to have to answer, "No,"And say they cannot have the things they tell me they are wanting so;Yet now and then they plead for what I know would not be good to giveOr what I can't afford to buy, and that's the hardest hour I live.
They little know or understand how happy I would be to grantTheir every wish, yet there are times it isn't wise, or else I can't.And sometimes, too, I can't explain the reason when they question whyTheir pleadings for some passing joy it is my duty to deny.
I only know I'd like to see them smile forever on life's way;I would not have them shed one tear or ever meet a troubled day.And I would be content with life and gladly face each dreary task,If I could always give to them the little treasures that they ask.
"Denial" From a painting by F. C. Yohn."Denial"From a painting byF. C. Yohn.
Sometimes we pray to God above and ask for joys that are denied,And when He seems to scorn our plea, in bitterness we turn aside.And yet the Father of us all, Who sees and knows just what is best,May wish, as often here we wish, that He could grant what we request.
Sometimes we pray to God above and ask for joys that are denied,And when He seems to scorn our plea, in bitterness we turn aside.And yet the Father of us all, Who sees and knows just what is best,May wish, as often here we wish, that He could grant what we request.
Sometimes we pray to God above and ask for joys that are denied,And when He seems to scorn our plea, in bitterness we turn aside.And yet the Father of us all, Who sees and knows just what is best,May wish, as often here we wish, that He could grant what we request.
To-day it's dirt and dust and steam,To-morrow it will be the same,And through it all the soul must dreamAnd try to play a manly game;Dirt, dust and steam and harsh commands,Yet many a soft hand passes byAnd only thinks he understandsThe purpose of my task and why.I've seen men shudder just to seeMe standing at this lathe of mine,And knew somehow they pitied me,But I have never made a whine;For out of all this dirt and dustAnd clang and clamor day by day,Beyond toil's everlasting "must,"I see my little ones at play.The hissing steam would drive me madIf hissing steam was all I heard;But there's a boy who calls me dadWho daily keeps my courage spurred;And there's a little girl who waitsEach night for all that I may bring,And I'm the guardian of their fates,Which makes this job a wholesome thing.Beyond the dust and dirt and steamI see a college where he'll go;And when I shall fulfill my dream,More than his father he will know;And she shall be a woman fair,Fit for the world to love and trust—I'll give my land a glorious pairOut of this place of dirt and dust.
To-day it's dirt and dust and steam,To-morrow it will be the same,And through it all the soul must dreamAnd try to play a manly game;Dirt, dust and steam and harsh commands,Yet many a soft hand passes byAnd only thinks he understandsThe purpose of my task and why.I've seen men shudder just to seeMe standing at this lathe of mine,And knew somehow they pitied me,But I have never made a whine;For out of all this dirt and dustAnd clang and clamor day by day,Beyond toil's everlasting "must,"I see my little ones at play.The hissing steam would drive me madIf hissing steam was all I heard;But there's a boy who calls me dadWho daily keeps my courage spurred;And there's a little girl who waitsEach night for all that I may bring,And I'm the guardian of their fates,Which makes this job a wholesome thing.Beyond the dust and dirt and steamI see a college where he'll go;And when I shall fulfill my dream,More than his father he will know;And she shall be a woman fair,Fit for the world to love and trust—I'll give my land a glorious pairOut of this place of dirt and dust.
To-day it's dirt and dust and steam,To-morrow it will be the same,And through it all the soul must dreamAnd try to play a manly game;Dirt, dust and steam and harsh commands,Yet many a soft hand passes byAnd only thinks he understandsThe purpose of my task and why.
I've seen men shudder just to seeMe standing at this lathe of mine,And knew somehow they pitied me,But I have never made a whine;For out of all this dirt and dustAnd clang and clamor day by day,Beyond toil's everlasting "must,"I see my little ones at play.
The hissing steam would drive me madIf hissing steam was all I heard;But there's a boy who calls me dadWho daily keeps my courage spurred;And there's a little girl who waitsEach night for all that I may bring,And I'm the guardian of their fates,Which makes this job a wholesome thing.
Beyond the dust and dirt and steamI see a college where he'll go;And when I shall fulfill my dream,More than his father he will know;And she shall be a woman fair,Fit for the world to love and trust—I'll give my land a glorious pairOut of this place of dirt and dust.
Looks as though a cyclone hit him—Can't buy clothes that seem to fit him;An' his cheeks are rough like leather,Made for standin' any weather.Outwards he wuz fashioned plainly,Loose o' joint an' blamed ungainly,But I'd give a lot if I'dBeen prepared so fine inside.Best thing I can tell you of himIs the way the children love him.Now an' then I get to thinkin'He is much like old Abe Lincoln—Homely like a gargoyle graven,An' looks worse when he's unshaven;But I'd take his ugly phizJes' to have a heart like his.I ain't over-sentimental,But old Blake is so blamed gentleAn' so thoughtful-like of othersHe reminds us of our mothers.Rough roads he is always smoothin',An' his way is, oh, so soothin'That he takes away the stingWhen your heart is sorrowing.
Looks as though a cyclone hit him—Can't buy clothes that seem to fit him;An' his cheeks are rough like leather,Made for standin' any weather.Outwards he wuz fashioned plainly,Loose o' joint an' blamed ungainly,But I'd give a lot if I'dBeen prepared so fine inside.Best thing I can tell you of himIs the way the children love him.Now an' then I get to thinkin'He is much like old Abe Lincoln—Homely like a gargoyle graven,An' looks worse when he's unshaven;But I'd take his ugly phizJes' to have a heart like his.I ain't over-sentimental,But old Blake is so blamed gentleAn' so thoughtful-like of othersHe reminds us of our mothers.Rough roads he is always smoothin',An' his way is, oh, so soothin'That he takes away the stingWhen your heart is sorrowing.
Looks as though a cyclone hit him—Can't buy clothes that seem to fit him;An' his cheeks are rough like leather,Made for standin' any weather.Outwards he wuz fashioned plainly,Loose o' joint an' blamed ungainly,But I'd give a lot if I'dBeen prepared so fine inside.
Best thing I can tell you of himIs the way the children love him.Now an' then I get to thinkin'He is much like old Abe Lincoln—Homely like a gargoyle graven,An' looks worse when he's unshaven;But I'd take his ugly phizJes' to have a heart like his.
I ain't over-sentimental,But old Blake is so blamed gentleAn' so thoughtful-like of othersHe reminds us of our mothers.Rough roads he is always smoothin',An' his way is, oh, so soothin'That he takes away the stingWhen your heart is sorrowing.
"The Homely Man" From a painting by M. L. Bower."The Homely Man"From a painting byM. L. Bower.
Children gather round about himLike they can't get on without him.An' the old depend upon him,Pilin' all their burdens on him,Like as though the thing that grieves 'emHas been lifted when he leaves 'em.Homely? That can't be denied.But he's glorious inside.
Children gather round about himLike they can't get on without him.An' the old depend upon him,Pilin' all their burdens on him,Like as though the thing that grieves 'emHas been lifted when he leaves 'em.Homely? That can't be denied.But he's glorious inside.
Children gather round about himLike they can't get on without him.An' the old depend upon him,Pilin' all their burdens on him,Like as though the thing that grieves 'emHas been lifted when he leaves 'em.Homely? That can't be denied.But he's glorious inside.
Mothers never change, I guess,In their tender thoughtfulness.Makes no difference that you growUp to forty years or so,Once you cough, you'll find that sheSees you as you used to be,An' she wants to tell to youAll the things that you must do.Just show symptoms of a cold,She'll forget that you've grown old.Though there's silver in your hair,Still you need a mother's care,An' she'll ask you things like these:"You still wearing b. v. d.'s?Summer days have long since gone,You should have your flannels on."Grown and married an' maybeFather of a family,But to mother you are stillJust her boy when you are ill;Just the lad that used to needPlasters made of mustard seed;An' she thinks she has to seeThat you get your flaxseed tea.Mothers never change, I guess,In their tender thoughtfulness.All her gentle long life throughShe is bent on nursing you;An' although you may be grown,She still claims you for her own,An' to her you'll always beJust a youngster at her knee.
Mothers never change, I guess,In their tender thoughtfulness.Makes no difference that you growUp to forty years or so,Once you cough, you'll find that sheSees you as you used to be,An' she wants to tell to youAll the things that you must do.Just show symptoms of a cold,She'll forget that you've grown old.Though there's silver in your hair,Still you need a mother's care,An' she'll ask you things like these:"You still wearing b. v. d.'s?Summer days have long since gone,You should have your flannels on."Grown and married an' maybeFather of a family,But to mother you are stillJust her boy when you are ill;Just the lad that used to needPlasters made of mustard seed;An' she thinks she has to seeThat you get your flaxseed tea.Mothers never change, I guess,In their tender thoughtfulness.All her gentle long life throughShe is bent on nursing you;An' although you may be grown,She still claims you for her own,An' to her you'll always beJust a youngster at her knee.
Mothers never change, I guess,In their tender thoughtfulness.Makes no difference that you growUp to forty years or so,Once you cough, you'll find that sheSees you as you used to be,An' she wants to tell to youAll the things that you must do.
Just show symptoms of a cold,She'll forget that you've grown old.Though there's silver in your hair,Still you need a mother's care,An' she'll ask you things like these:"You still wearing b. v. d.'s?Summer days have long since gone,You should have your flannels on."
Grown and married an' maybeFather of a family,But to mother you are stillJust her boy when you are ill;Just the lad that used to needPlasters made of mustard seed;An' she thinks she has to seeThat you get your flaxseed tea.
Mothers never change, I guess,In their tender thoughtfulness.All her gentle long life throughShe is bent on nursing you;An' although you may be grown,She still claims you for her own,An' to her you'll always beJust a youngster at her knee.
Life is a jest;Take the delight of it.Laughter is best;Sing through the night of it.Swiftly the tearAnd the hurt and the ache of itFind us down here;Life must be what we make of it.Life is a song;Let us dance to the thrill of it.Grief's hours are long,And cold is the chill of it.Joy is man's need;Let us smile for the sake of it.This be our creed:Life must be what we make of it.Life is a soul;The virtue and vice of it.Strife for a goal,And man's strength is the price of it.Your life and mine,The bare bread and the cake of it,End in this line:Life must be what we make of it.
Life is a jest;Take the delight of it.Laughter is best;Sing through the night of it.Swiftly the tearAnd the hurt and the ache of itFind us down here;Life must be what we make of it.Life is a song;Let us dance to the thrill of it.Grief's hours are long,And cold is the chill of it.Joy is man's need;Let us smile for the sake of it.This be our creed:Life must be what we make of it.Life is a soul;The virtue and vice of it.Strife for a goal,And man's strength is the price of it.Your life and mine,The bare bread and the cake of it,End in this line:Life must be what we make of it.
Life is a jest;Take the delight of it.Laughter is best;Sing through the night of it.Swiftly the tearAnd the hurt and the ache of itFind us down here;Life must be what we make of it.
Life is a song;Let us dance to the thrill of it.Grief's hours are long,And cold is the chill of it.Joy is man's need;Let us smile for the sake of it.This be our creed:Life must be what we make of it.
Life is a soul;The virtue and vice of it.Strife for a goal,And man's strength is the price of it.Your life and mine,The bare bread and the cake of it,End in this line:Life must be what we make of it.
"Life" From a charcoal drawing by W. T. Benda."Life"From a charcoal drawing byW. T. Benda.
This I would claim for my success—not fame nor gold,Nor the throng's changing cheers from day to day,Not always ease and fortune's glad display,Though all of these are pleasant joys to hold;But I would like to have my story toldBy smiling friends with whom I've shared the way,Who, thinking of me, nod their heads and say:"His heart was warm when other hearts were cold."None turned to him for aid and found it not,His eyes were never blind to man's distress,Youth and old age he lived, nor once forgotThe anguish and the ache of loneliness;His name was free from stain or shameful blotAnd in his friendship men found happiness."
This I would claim for my success—not fame nor gold,Nor the throng's changing cheers from day to day,Not always ease and fortune's glad display,Though all of these are pleasant joys to hold;But I would like to have my story toldBy smiling friends with whom I've shared the way,Who, thinking of me, nod their heads and say:"His heart was warm when other hearts were cold."None turned to him for aid and found it not,His eyes were never blind to man's distress,Youth and old age he lived, nor once forgotThe anguish and the ache of loneliness;His name was free from stain or shameful blotAnd in his friendship men found happiness."
This I would claim for my success—not fame nor gold,Nor the throng's changing cheers from day to day,Not always ease and fortune's glad display,Though all of these are pleasant joys to hold;But I would like to have my story toldBy smiling friends with whom I've shared the way,Who, thinking of me, nod their heads and say:"His heart was warm when other hearts were cold.
"None turned to him for aid and found it not,His eyes were never blind to man's distress,Youth and old age he lived, nor once forgotThe anguish and the ache of loneliness;His name was free from stain or shameful blotAnd in his friendship men found happiness."
The roses are bedded for winter, the tulips are planted for spring;The robins and martins have left us; there are only the sparrows to sing.The garden seems solemnly silent, awaiting its blankets of snow,And I feel like a lonely old fellow with nowhere to turn or to go.All summer I've hovered about them, all summer they've nodded at me;I've wandered and waited among them the first pink of blossom to see;I've known them and loved and caressed them, and now all their splendor has fled,And the harsh winds of winter all tell me the friends of my garden are dead.I'm a lonely old fellow, that's certain. All winter with nothing to doBut sit by the window recalling the days when my skies were all blue;But my heart is not given to sorrow and never my lips shall complain,For winter shall pass and the sunshine shall give me my roses again.And so for the friends that have vanished, the friends that they tell me are dead,Who have traveled the road to God's Acres and sleep where the willows are spread;They have left me a lonely old fellow to sit here and dream by the pane,But I know, like the friends of my garden, we shall all meet together again.
The roses are bedded for winter, the tulips are planted for spring;The robins and martins have left us; there are only the sparrows to sing.The garden seems solemnly silent, awaiting its blankets of snow,And I feel like a lonely old fellow with nowhere to turn or to go.All summer I've hovered about them, all summer they've nodded at me;I've wandered and waited among them the first pink of blossom to see;I've known them and loved and caressed them, and now all their splendor has fled,And the harsh winds of winter all tell me the friends of my garden are dead.I'm a lonely old fellow, that's certain. All winter with nothing to doBut sit by the window recalling the days when my skies were all blue;But my heart is not given to sorrow and never my lips shall complain,For winter shall pass and the sunshine shall give me my roses again.And so for the friends that have vanished, the friends that they tell me are dead,Who have traveled the road to God's Acres and sleep where the willows are spread;They have left me a lonely old fellow to sit here and dream by the pane,But I know, like the friends of my garden, we shall all meet together again.
The roses are bedded for winter, the tulips are planted for spring;The robins and martins have left us; there are only the sparrows to sing.The garden seems solemnly silent, awaiting its blankets of snow,And I feel like a lonely old fellow with nowhere to turn or to go.
All summer I've hovered about them, all summer they've nodded at me;I've wandered and waited among them the first pink of blossom to see;I've known them and loved and caressed them, and now all their splendor has fled,And the harsh winds of winter all tell me the friends of my garden are dead.
I'm a lonely old fellow, that's certain. All winter with nothing to doBut sit by the window recalling the days when my skies were all blue;But my heart is not given to sorrow and never my lips shall complain,For winter shall pass and the sunshine shall give me my roses again.
And so for the friends that have vanished, the friends that they tell me are dead,Who have traveled the road to God's Acres and sleep where the willows are spread;They have left me a lonely old fellow to sit here and dream by the pane,But I know, like the friends of my garden, we shall all meet together again.
Somebody wants a new bonnet to wear;Somebody wants a new dress;Somebody needs a new bow for her hair,And never the wanting grows less.Oh, this is the reason I labor each dayAnd this is the joy of my tasks:That deep in the envelope holding my payIs something that somebody asks.I could go begging for water and breadAnd travel the highways of ease,But somebody wants a roof over his headAnd stockings to cover his knees.I could go shirking the duties of lifeAnd laugh when necessity pleads,But rather I stand to the toil and the strifeTo furnish what somebody needs.Somebody wants what I've strength to supply,And somebody's waiting for meTo come home to-night with money to buyHer bread and her cake and her tea.And as I am strong so her laughter will ring,And as I am true she will smile;It's the somebody else of the toiler or kingThat makes all the struggle worth while.
Somebody wants a new bonnet to wear;Somebody wants a new dress;Somebody needs a new bow for her hair,And never the wanting grows less.Oh, this is the reason I labor each dayAnd this is the joy of my tasks:That deep in the envelope holding my payIs something that somebody asks.I could go begging for water and breadAnd travel the highways of ease,But somebody wants a roof over his headAnd stockings to cover his knees.I could go shirking the duties of lifeAnd laugh when necessity pleads,But rather I stand to the toil and the strifeTo furnish what somebody needs.Somebody wants what I've strength to supply,And somebody's waiting for meTo come home to-night with money to buyHer bread and her cake and her tea.And as I am strong so her laughter will ring,And as I am true she will smile;It's the somebody else of the toiler or kingThat makes all the struggle worth while.
Somebody wants a new bonnet to wear;Somebody wants a new dress;Somebody needs a new bow for her hair,And never the wanting grows less.Oh, this is the reason I labor each dayAnd this is the joy of my tasks:That deep in the envelope holding my payIs something that somebody asks.
I could go begging for water and breadAnd travel the highways of ease,But somebody wants a roof over his headAnd stockings to cover his knees.I could go shirking the duties of lifeAnd laugh when necessity pleads,But rather I stand to the toil and the strifeTo furnish what somebody needs.
Somebody wants what I've strength to supply,And somebody's waiting for meTo come home to-night with money to buyHer bread and her cake and her tea.And as I am strong so her laughter will ring,And as I am true she will smile;It's the somebody else of the toiler or kingThat makes all the struggle worth while.
"Somebody Else" From a charcoal drawing by M. L. Bower."Somebody Else"From a charcoal drawing byM. L. Bower.
Somebody needs all the courage I own,And somebody's trust is in me;For never a man who can go it alone,Whatever his station may be.So I stand to my task and I stand to my care,And struggle to come to success,For the ribbons to tie up somebody's hair,And my somebody's pretty new dress.
Somebody needs all the courage I own,And somebody's trust is in me;For never a man who can go it alone,Whatever his station may be.So I stand to my task and I stand to my care,And struggle to come to success,For the ribbons to tie up somebody's hair,And my somebody's pretty new dress.
Somebody needs all the courage I own,And somebody's trust is in me;For never a man who can go it alone,Whatever his station may be.So I stand to my task and I stand to my care,And struggle to come to success,For the ribbons to tie up somebody's hair,And my somebody's pretty new dress.
He brought me his report card from the teacher and he saidHe wasn't very proud of it and sadly bowed his head.He was excellent in reading, but arithmetic, was fair,And I noticed there were several "unsatisfactorys" there;But one little bit of credit which was given brought me joy—He was "excellent in effort," and I fairly hugged the boy."Oh, it doesn't make much difference what is written on your card,"I told that little fellow, "if you're only trying hard.The 'very goods' and 'excellents' are fine, I must agree,But the effort you are making means a whole lot more to me;And the thing that's most important when this card is put asideIs to know, in spite of failure, that to do your best you've tried."Just keep excellent in effort—all the rest will come to you.There isn't any problem but some day you'll learn to do,And at last, when you grow older, you will come to understandThat by hard and patient toiling men have risen to commandAnd some day you will discover when a greater goal's at stakeThat better far than brilliance is the effort you will make."
He brought me his report card from the teacher and he saidHe wasn't very proud of it and sadly bowed his head.He was excellent in reading, but arithmetic, was fair,And I noticed there were several "unsatisfactorys" there;But one little bit of credit which was given brought me joy—He was "excellent in effort," and I fairly hugged the boy."Oh, it doesn't make much difference what is written on your card,"I told that little fellow, "if you're only trying hard.The 'very goods' and 'excellents' are fine, I must agree,But the effort you are making means a whole lot more to me;And the thing that's most important when this card is put asideIs to know, in spite of failure, that to do your best you've tried."Just keep excellent in effort—all the rest will come to you.There isn't any problem but some day you'll learn to do,And at last, when you grow older, you will come to understandThat by hard and patient toiling men have risen to commandAnd some day you will discover when a greater goal's at stakeThat better far than brilliance is the effort you will make."
He brought me his report card from the teacher and he saidHe wasn't very proud of it and sadly bowed his head.He was excellent in reading, but arithmetic, was fair,And I noticed there were several "unsatisfactorys" there;But one little bit of credit which was given brought me joy—He was "excellent in effort," and I fairly hugged the boy.
"Oh, it doesn't make much difference what is written on your card,"I told that little fellow, "if you're only trying hard.The 'very goods' and 'excellents' are fine, I must agree,But the effort you are making means a whole lot more to me;And the thing that's most important when this card is put asideIs to know, in spite of failure, that to do your best you've tried.
"Just keep excellent in effort—all the rest will come to you.There isn't any problem but some day you'll learn to do,And at last, when you grow older, you will come to understandThat by hard and patient toiling men have risen to commandAnd some day you will discover when a greater goal's at stakeThat better far than brilliance is the effort you will make."
The miser thinks he's living when he's hoarding up his gold;The soldier calls it living when he's doing something bold;The sailor thinks it living to be tossed upon the sea,And upon this very subject no two men of us agree.But I hold to the opinion, as I walk my way along,That living's made of laughter and good-fellowship and song.I wouldn't call it living to be always seeking gold,To bank all the present gladness for the days when I'll be old.I wouldn't call it living to spend all my strength for fame,And forego the many pleasures which to-day are mine to claim.I wouldn't for the splendor of the world set out to roam,And forsake my laughing children and the peace I know at home.
The miser thinks he's living when he's hoarding up his gold;The soldier calls it living when he's doing something bold;The sailor thinks it living to be tossed upon the sea,And upon this very subject no two men of us agree.But I hold to the opinion, as I walk my way along,That living's made of laughter and good-fellowship and song.I wouldn't call it living to be always seeking gold,To bank all the present gladness for the days when I'll be old.I wouldn't call it living to spend all my strength for fame,And forego the many pleasures which to-day are mine to claim.I wouldn't for the splendor of the world set out to roam,And forsake my laughing children and the peace I know at home.
The miser thinks he's living when he's hoarding up his gold;The soldier calls it living when he's doing something bold;The sailor thinks it living to be tossed upon the sea,And upon this very subject no two men of us agree.But I hold to the opinion, as I walk my way along,That living's made of laughter and good-fellowship and song.
I wouldn't call it living to be always seeking gold,To bank all the present gladness for the days when I'll be old.I wouldn't call it living to spend all my strength for fame,And forego the many pleasures which to-day are mine to claim.I wouldn't for the splendor of the world set out to roam,And forsake my laughing children and the peace I know at home.
"Living" From a painting by Frank X. Leyendecker."Living"From a painting byFrank X. Leyendecker.
Oh, the thing that I call living isn't gold or fame at all!It's fellowship and sunshine, and it's roses by the wall.It's evenings glad with music and a hearth-fire that's ablaze,And the joys which come to mortals in a thousand different ways.It is laughter and contentment and the struggle for a goal;It is everything that's needful in the shaping of a soul.
Oh, the thing that I call living isn't gold or fame at all!It's fellowship and sunshine, and it's roses by the wall.It's evenings glad with music and a hearth-fire that's ablaze,And the joys which come to mortals in a thousand different ways.It is laughter and contentment and the struggle for a goal;It is everything that's needful in the shaping of a soul.
Oh, the thing that I call living isn't gold or fame at all!It's fellowship and sunshine, and it's roses by the wall.It's evenings glad with music and a hearth-fire that's ablaze,And the joys which come to mortals in a thousand different ways.It is laughter and contentment and the struggle for a goal;It is everything that's needful in the shaping of a soul.
A warm house and a ruddy fire,To what more can man aspire?Eyes that shine with love aglow,Is there more for man to know?Whether home be rich or poor,If contentment mark the doorHe who finds it good to liveHas the best that life can give.This the end of mortal strife!Peace at night to sweeten life,Rest when mind and body tire,At contentment's ruddy fire.Rooms where merry songs are sung,Happy old and glorious young;These, if perfect peace be known,Both the rich and poor must own.A warm house and a ruddy fire,These the goals of all desire,These the dream of every manSince God spoke and life began.
A warm house and a ruddy fire,To what more can man aspire?Eyes that shine with love aglow,Is there more for man to know?Whether home be rich or poor,If contentment mark the doorHe who finds it good to liveHas the best that life can give.This the end of mortal strife!Peace at night to sweeten life,Rest when mind and body tire,At contentment's ruddy fire.Rooms where merry songs are sung,Happy old and glorious young;These, if perfect peace be known,Both the rich and poor must own.A warm house and a ruddy fire,These the goals of all desire,These the dream of every manSince God spoke and life began.
A warm house and a ruddy fire,To what more can man aspire?Eyes that shine with love aglow,Is there more for man to know?
Whether home be rich or poor,If contentment mark the doorHe who finds it good to liveHas the best that life can give.
This the end of mortal strife!Peace at night to sweeten life,Rest when mind and body tire,At contentment's ruddy fire.
Rooms where merry songs are sung,Happy old and glorious young;These, if perfect peace be known,Both the rich and poor must own.
A warm house and a ruddy fire,These the goals of all desire,These the dream of every manSince God spoke and life began.
Nine passed him by with a hasty look,Each bent on his eager way;One glance at him was the most they took,"Somebody stuck," said they;But it never occurred to the nine to heedA stranger's plight and a stranger's need.The tenth man looked at the stranded car,And he promptly stopped his own."Let's see if I know what your troubles are,"Said he in a cheerful tone;"Just stuck in the mire. Here's a cable stout,Hitch onto my bus and I'll pull you out.""A thousand thanks," said the stranger then,"For the debt that I owe you;I've counted them all and you're one in tenSuch a kindly deed to do."And the tenth man smiled and he answered then,"Make sure that you'll be the one in ten."Are you one of the nine who pass men byIn this hasty life we live?Do you refuse with a downcast eyeThe help which you could give?Or are you the one in ten whose creedIs always to stop for the man in need?
Nine passed him by with a hasty look,Each bent on his eager way;One glance at him was the most they took,"Somebody stuck," said they;But it never occurred to the nine to heedA stranger's plight and a stranger's need.The tenth man looked at the stranded car,And he promptly stopped his own."Let's see if I know what your troubles are,"Said he in a cheerful tone;"Just stuck in the mire. Here's a cable stout,Hitch onto my bus and I'll pull you out.""A thousand thanks," said the stranger then,"For the debt that I owe you;I've counted them all and you're one in tenSuch a kindly deed to do."And the tenth man smiled and he answered then,"Make sure that you'll be the one in ten."Are you one of the nine who pass men byIn this hasty life we live?Do you refuse with a downcast eyeThe help which you could give?Or are you the one in ten whose creedIs always to stop for the man in need?
Nine passed him by with a hasty look,Each bent on his eager way;One glance at him was the most they took,"Somebody stuck," said they;But it never occurred to the nine to heedA stranger's plight and a stranger's need.
The tenth man looked at the stranded car,And he promptly stopped his own."Let's see if I know what your troubles are,"Said he in a cheerful tone;"Just stuck in the mire. Here's a cable stout,Hitch onto my bus and I'll pull you out."
"A thousand thanks," said the stranger then,"For the debt that I owe you;I've counted them all and you're one in tenSuch a kindly deed to do."And the tenth man smiled and he answered then,"Make sure that you'll be the one in ten."
Are you one of the nine who pass men byIn this hasty life we live?Do you refuse with a downcast eyeThe help which you could give?Or are you the one in ten whose creedIs always to stop for the man in need?
The great were once as you.They whom men magnify to-dayOnce groped and blundered on life's way,Were fearful of themselves, and thoughtBy magic was men's greatness wrought.They feared to try what they could do;Yet Fame hath crowned with her successThe selfsame gifts that you possess.The great were young as you,Dreaming the very dreams you hold,Longing yet fearing to be bold,Doubting that they themselves possessedThe strength and skill for every test,Uncertain of the truths they knew,Not sure that they could stand to fateWith all the courage of the great.Then came a day when theyTheir first bold venture made,Scorning to cry for aid.They dared to stand to fight alone,Took up the gauntlet life had thrown,Charged full-front to the fray,Mastered their fear of self, and then,Learned that our great men are but men.
The great were once as you.They whom men magnify to-dayOnce groped and blundered on life's way,Were fearful of themselves, and thoughtBy magic was men's greatness wrought.They feared to try what they could do;Yet Fame hath crowned with her successThe selfsame gifts that you possess.The great were young as you,Dreaming the very dreams you hold,Longing yet fearing to be bold,Doubting that they themselves possessedThe strength and skill for every test,Uncertain of the truths they knew,Not sure that they could stand to fateWith all the courage of the great.Then came a day when theyTheir first bold venture made,Scorning to cry for aid.They dared to stand to fight alone,Took up the gauntlet life had thrown,Charged full-front to the fray,Mastered their fear of self, and then,Learned that our great men are but men.
The great were once as you.They whom men magnify to-dayOnce groped and blundered on life's way,Were fearful of themselves, and thoughtBy magic was men's greatness wrought.They feared to try what they could do;Yet Fame hath crowned with her successThe selfsame gifts that you possess.
The great were young as you,Dreaming the very dreams you hold,Longing yet fearing to be bold,Doubting that they themselves possessedThe strength and skill for every test,Uncertain of the truths they knew,Not sure that they could stand to fateWith all the courage of the great.
Then came a day when theyTheir first bold venture made,Scorning to cry for aid.They dared to stand to fight alone,Took up the gauntlet life had thrown,Charged full-front to the fray,Mastered their fear of self, and then,Learned that our great men are but men.
"To A Young Man" From a charcoal drawing by W. T. Benda."To A Young Man"From a charcoal drawing byW. T. Benda.
Oh, youth, go forth and do!You, too, to fame may rise;You can be strong and wise.Stand up to life and play the man—You can if you'll but think you can;The great were once as you.You envy them their proud success?'Twas won with gifts that you possess.
Oh, youth, go forth and do!You, too, to fame may rise;You can be strong and wise.Stand up to life and play the man—You can if you'll but think you can;The great were once as you.You envy them their proud success?'Twas won with gifts that you possess.
Oh, youth, go forth and do!You, too, to fame may rise;You can be strong and wise.Stand up to life and play the man—You can if you'll but think you can;The great were once as you.You envy them their proud success?'Twas won with gifts that you possess.
Bill Jones, who goes to school with me,Is the saddest boy I ever see.He's just so 'fraid he runs awayWhen all of us fellows want to play,An' says he dassent stay aboutCoz if his father found it outHe'd wallop him. An' he can't goWith us to see a picture showOn Saturdays, an' it's too bad,But he's afraid to ask his dad.When he gets his report card, heIs just as scared as scared can be,An' once I saw him when he criedBecoz although he'd tried an' triedHis best, the teacher didn't careAn' only marked his spelling fair,An' he told me there'd be a fightWhen his dad saw his card that night.It seems to me it's awful badTo be so frightened of your dad.My Dad ain't that way—I can goAn' tell him everything I know,An' ask him things, an' when he comesBack home at night he says we're chums;An' we go out an' take a walk,An' all the time he lets me talk.I ain't scared to tell him whatI've done to-day that I should not;When I get home I'm always gladTo stay around an' play with Dad.Bill Jones, he says, he wishes heCould have a father just like me,But his dad hasn't time to play,An' so he chases him awayAn' scolds him when he makes a noiseAn' licks him if he breaks his toys.Sometimes Bill says he's got to lieOr else get whipped, an' that is whyIt seems to me it's awful badTo be so frightened of your dad.
Bill Jones, who goes to school with me,Is the saddest boy I ever see.He's just so 'fraid he runs awayWhen all of us fellows want to play,An' says he dassent stay aboutCoz if his father found it outHe'd wallop him. An' he can't goWith us to see a picture showOn Saturdays, an' it's too bad,But he's afraid to ask his dad.When he gets his report card, heIs just as scared as scared can be,An' once I saw him when he criedBecoz although he'd tried an' triedHis best, the teacher didn't careAn' only marked his spelling fair,An' he told me there'd be a fightWhen his dad saw his card that night.It seems to me it's awful badTo be so frightened of your dad.My Dad ain't that way—I can goAn' tell him everything I know,An' ask him things, an' when he comesBack home at night he says we're chums;An' we go out an' take a walk,An' all the time he lets me talk.I ain't scared to tell him whatI've done to-day that I should not;When I get home I'm always gladTo stay around an' play with Dad.Bill Jones, he says, he wishes heCould have a father just like me,But his dad hasn't time to play,An' so he chases him awayAn' scolds him when he makes a noiseAn' licks him if he breaks his toys.Sometimes Bill says he's got to lieOr else get whipped, an' that is whyIt seems to me it's awful badTo be so frightened of your dad.
Bill Jones, who goes to school with me,Is the saddest boy I ever see.He's just so 'fraid he runs awayWhen all of us fellows want to play,An' says he dassent stay aboutCoz if his father found it outHe'd wallop him. An' he can't goWith us to see a picture showOn Saturdays, an' it's too bad,But he's afraid to ask his dad.
When he gets his report card, heIs just as scared as scared can be,An' once I saw him when he criedBecoz although he'd tried an' triedHis best, the teacher didn't careAn' only marked his spelling fair,An' he told me there'd be a fightWhen his dad saw his card that night.It seems to me it's awful badTo be so frightened of your dad.
My Dad ain't that way—I can goAn' tell him everything I know,An' ask him things, an' when he comesBack home at night he says we're chums;An' we go out an' take a walk,An' all the time he lets me talk.I ain't scared to tell him whatI've done to-day that I should not;When I get home I'm always gladTo stay around an' play with Dad.
Bill Jones, he says, he wishes heCould have a father just like me,But his dad hasn't time to play,An' so he chases him awayAn' scolds him when he makes a noiseAn' licks him if he breaks his toys.Sometimes Bill says he's got to lieOr else get whipped, an' that is whyIt seems to me it's awful badTo be so frightened of your dad.
I have no wealth of gold to give away,But I can pledge to worthy causes these:I'll give my strength, my days and hours of ease,My finest thought and courage when I may,And take some deed accomplished for my pay.I cannot offer much in silver fees,But I can serve when richer persons play,And with my presence fill some vacancies.There are some things beyond the gift of gold,A richer treasure's needed now and then;Some joys life needs which are not bought and sold—The high occasion often calls for men.Some for release from service give their pelf,But he gives most who freely gives himself.
I have no wealth of gold to give away,But I can pledge to worthy causes these:I'll give my strength, my days and hours of ease,My finest thought and courage when I may,And take some deed accomplished for my pay.I cannot offer much in silver fees,But I can serve when richer persons play,And with my presence fill some vacancies.There are some things beyond the gift of gold,A richer treasure's needed now and then;Some joys life needs which are not bought and sold—The high occasion often calls for men.Some for release from service give their pelf,But he gives most who freely gives himself.
I have no wealth of gold to give away,But I can pledge to worthy causes these:I'll give my strength, my days and hours of ease,My finest thought and courage when I may,And take some deed accomplished for my pay.I cannot offer much in silver fees,But I can serve when richer persons play,And with my presence fill some vacancies.
There are some things beyond the gift of gold,A richer treasure's needed now and then;Some joys life needs which are not bought and sold—The high occasion often calls for men.Some for release from service give their pelf,But he gives most who freely gives himself.