Part 14

BE A FRIEND

Be a friend. You don't need money; Just a disposition sunny; Just the wish to help another Get along some way or other; Just a kindly hand extended Out to one who's unbefriended; Just the will to give or lend, This will make you someone's friend.

Be a friend. You don't need glory. Friendship is a simple story. Pass by trifling errors blindly, Gaze on honest effort kindly, Cheer the youth who's bravely trying, Pity him who's sadly sighing; Just a little labor spend On the duties of a friend.

Be a friend. The pay is bigger (Though not written by a figure) Than is earned by people clever In what's merely self-endeavor. You'll have friends instead of neighbors For the profits of your labors; You'll be richer in the end Than a prince, if you're a friend.

{98}

THANKSGIVING

Thankful for the glory of the old Red, White and Blue, For the spirit of America that still is staunch and true, For the laughter of our children and the sunlight in their eyes, And the joy of radiant mothers and their evening lullabies; And thankful that our harvests wear no taint of blood to-day, But were sown and reaped by toilers who were light of heart and gay.

Thankful for the riches that are ours to claim and keep, The joy of honest labor and the boon of happy sleep, For each little family circle where there is no empty chair Save where God has sent the sorrow for the loving hearts to bear; And thankful for the loyal souls and brave hearts of the past Who builded that contentment should be with us to the last.

Thankful for the plenty that our peaceful land has blessed, For the rising sun that beckons every man to do his best, For the goal that lies before him and the promise when he sows That his hand shall reap the harvest, undisturbed by cruel foes; For the flaming torch of justice, symbolizing as it burns: Here none may rob the toiler of the prize he fairly earns.

To-day our thanks we're giving for the riches that are ours, For the red fruits of the orchards and the perfume of the flowers, For our homes with laughter ringing and our hearthfires blazing bright, For our land of peace and plenty and our land of truth and right; And we're thankful for the glory of the old Red, White and Blue, For the spirit of our fathers and a manhood that is true.

{100}

MA AND HER CHECK BOOK

Ma has a dandy little book that's full of narrow slips, An' when she wants to pay a bill a page from it she rips; She just writes in the dollars and the cents and signs her name An' that's as good as money, though it doesn't look the same. When she wants another bonnet or some feathers for her neck, She promptly goes an' gets 'em, an' she writes another check. I don't just understand it, but I know she sputters when Pa says to her at supper: "Well! You're overdrawn again!"

Ma's not a business woman, she is much too kind of heart To squabble over pennies or to play a selfish part, An' when someone asks for money, she's not one to stop an' think Of a little piece of paper an' the cost of pen an' ink. She just tells him very sweetly if he'll only wait a bit An' be seated in the parlor, she will write a check for it. She can write one out for twenty just as easily as ten, An' forgets that Pa may grumble: "Well, you're overdrawn again!"

Pa says it looks as though he'll have to start in workin' nights To gather in the money for the checks that mother writes. He says that every morning when he's summoned to the phone, He's afraid the bank is calling to make mother's shortage known. He tells his friends if ever anything our fortune wrecks They can trace it to the moment mother started writing checks. He's got so that he trembles when he sees her fountain pen An' he mutters: "Do be careful! You'll be overdrawn again!"

{102}

THE FISHING CURE

There's nothing that builds up a toil-weary soul Like a day on a stream, Back on the banks of the old fishing hole Where a fellow can dream. There's nothing so good for a man as to flee From the city and lie Full length in the shade of a whispering tree And gaze at the sky.

Out there where the strife and the greed are forgot And the struggle for pelf, A man can get rid of each taint and each spot And clean up himself; He can be what he wanted to be when a boy, If only in dreams; And revel once more in the depths of a joy That's as real as it seems.

The things that he hates never follow him there-- The jar of the street, The rivalries petty, the struggling unfair-- For the open is sweet. In purity's realm he can rest and be clean, Be he humble or great, And as peaceful his soul may become as the scene That his eyes contemplate.

It is good for the world that men hunger to go To the banks of a stream, And weary of sham and of pomp and of show They have somewhere to dream. For this life would be dreary and sordid and base Did they not now and then Seek refreshment and calm in God's wide, open space And come back to be men.

{103}

THE HAPPY SLOW THINKER

Full many a time a thought has come That had a bitter meaning in it. And in the conversation's hum I lost it ere I could begin it.

I've had it on my tongue to spring Some poisoned quip that I thought clever; Then something happened and the sting Unuttered went, and died forever.

A lot of bitter thoughts I've had To silence fellows and to flay 'em, But next day always I've been glad I wasn't quick enough to say 'em.

{104}

OUT-OF-DOORS