Part 10

Courage isn't a dazzling light That flashes and passes away from sight; It's a slow, unwavering, ingrained trait With the patience to work and the strength to wait. It's part of a man when his skies are blue, It's part of him when he has work to do. The brave man never is freed of it. He has it when there is no need of it.

Courage was never designed for show; It isn't a thing that can come and go; It's written in victory and defeat And every trial a man may meet. It's part of his hours, his days and his years, Back of his smiles and behind his tears. Courage is more than a daring deed: It's the breath of life and a strong man's creed.

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GREATNESS

We can be great by helping one another; We can be loved for very simple deeds; Who has the grateful mention of a brother Has really all the honor that he needs.

We can be famous for our works of kindness-- Fame is not born alone of strength or skill; It sometimes comes from deafness and from blindness To petty words and faults, and loving still.

We can be rich in gentle smiles and sunny: A jeweled soul exceeds a royal crown. The richest men sometimes have little money, And Croesus oft's the poorest man in town.

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THE EPICURE

I've sipped a rich man's sparkling wine, His silverware I've handled. I've placed these battered legs of mine 'Neath tables gayly candled. I dine on rare and costly fare Whene'er good fortune lets me, But there's no meal that can compare With those the missus gets me.

I've had your steaks three inches thick With all your Sam Ward trimming, I've had the breast of milk-fed chick In luscious gravy swimming. To dine in swell cafe or club But irritates and frets me; Give me the plain and wholesome grub-- The grub the missus gets me.

Two kiddies smiling at the board, The cook right at the table, The four of us, a hungry horde, To beat that none is able. A big meat pie, with flaky crust! 'Tis then that joy besets me; Oh, I could eat until I "bust," Those meals the missus gets me.

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THE GENTLE GARDENER

I'd like to leave but daffodills to mark my little way, To leave but tulips red and white behind me as I stray; I'd like to pass away from earth and feel I'd left behind But roses and forget-me-nots for all who come to find.

I'd like to sow the barren spots with all the flowers of earth, To leave a path where those who come should find but gentle mirth; And when at last I'm called upon to join the heavenly throng I'd like to feel along my way I'd left no sign of wrong.

And yet the cares are many and the hours of toil are few; There is not time enough on earth for all I'd like to do; But, having lived and having toiled, I'd like the world to find Some little touch of beauty that my soul had left behind.

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THE FINEST AGE

When he was only nine months old, And plump and round and pink of cheek, A joy to tickle and to hold, Before he'd even learned to speak, His gentle mother used to say: "It is too bad that he must grow. If I could only have my way His baby ways we'd always know."

And then the year was turned, and he Began to toddle round the floor And name the things that he could see And soil the dresses that he wore. Then many a night she whispered low: "Our baby now is such a joy I hate to think that he must grow To be a wild and heedless boy."

But on he went and sweeter grew, And then his mother, I recall, Wished she could keep him always two, For that's the finest age of all. She thought the selfsame thing at three, And now that he is four, she sighs To think he cannot always be The youngster with the laughing eyes.

Oh, little boy, my wish is not Always to keep you four years old. Each night I stand beside your cot And think of what the years may hold; And looking down on you I pray That when we've lost our baby small, The mother of our man will say "This is the finest age of all."

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SUCCESS AND FAILURE

I do not think all failure's undeserved, And all success is merely someone's luck; Some men are down because they were unnerved, And some are up because they kept their pluck. Some men are down because they chose to shirk; Some men are high because they did their work.

I do not think that all the poor are good, That riches are the uniform of shame; The beggar might have conquered if he would, And that he begs, the world is not to blame. Misfortune is not all that comes to mar; Most men, themselves, have shaped the things they are.

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