Part 12

Friends

Ain't it fine when things are going Topsy-turvy and askew To discover someone showing Good old-fashioned faith in you?

Ain't it good when life seems dreary And your hopes about to end, Just to feel the handclasp cheery Of a fine old loyal friend?

Gosh! one fellow to another Means a lot from day to day, Seems we're living for each other In a friendly sort of way.

When a smile or cheerful greetin' Means so much to fellows sore, Seems we ought to keep repeatin' Smiles an' praises more an' more.

A Boost for Modern Methods

In some respects the old days were perhaps ahead of these, Before we got to wanting wealth and costly luxuries; Perhaps the world was happier then, I'm not the one to say, But when it's zero weather I am glad I live to-day.

Old-fashioned winters I recall--the winters of my youth-- I have no great desire for them to-day, I say in truth; The frost upon the window panes was beautiful to see, But the chill upon that bedroom floor was not a joy to me.

I do not now recall that it was fun in those days when I woke to learn the water pipes were frozen tight "again." To win once more the old-time joys, I don't believe I'd care To have to sleep, for comfort's sake, dressed in my underwear.

Old-fashioned winters had their charms, a fact I can't deny, But after all I'm really glad that they have wandered by; We used to tumble out of bed, like firemen, I declare, And grab our clothes and hike down stairs and finish dressing there.

Yes, brag about those days of old, boast of them as you will, I sing the modern methods that have robbed them of their chill; I sing the cheery steam pipe and the upstairs snug and warm And a spine that's free from shivers as I robe my manly form.

The Man to Be

Some day the world will need a man of courage in a time of doubt, And somewhere, as a little boy, that future hero plays about. Within some humble home, no doubt, that instrument of greater things Now climbs upon his father's knee or to his mother's garments clings. And when shall come that call for him to render service that is fine, He that shall do God's mission here may be your little boy or mine.

Long years of preparation mark the pathway for the splendid souls, And generations live and die and seem no nearer to their goals, And yet the purpose of it all, the fleeting pleasure and the woe, The laughter and the grief of life that all who come to earth must know May be to pave the way for one--one man to serve the Will Divine And it is possible that he may be your little boy or mine.

Some day the world will need a man! I stand beside his cot at night And wonder if I'm teaching him, as best I can, to know the right. I am the father of a boy--his life is mine to make or mar-- And he no better can become than what my daily teachings are; There will be need for someone great--I dare not falter from the line-- The man that is to serve the world may be that little boy of mine.

Perhaps your boy and mine may not ascend the lofty heights of fame; The orders for their births are hid. We know not why to earth they came. Yet in some little bed to-night the great man of to-morrow sleeps And only He who sent him here, the secret of his purpose keeps. As fathers then our care is this--to keep in mind the Great Design. The man the world shall need some day may be your little boy or mine.

The Summer Children

I like 'em, in the winter when their cheeks are slightly pale, I like 'em in the spring time when the March winds blow a gale; But when summer suns have tanned 'em and they're racing to and fro, I somehow think the children make the finest sort of show.

When they're brown as little berries and they're bare of foot and head, And they're on the go each minute where the velvet lawns are spread, Then their health is at its finest and they never stop to rest, Oh, it's then I think the children look and are their very best.

We've got to know the winter and we've got to know the spring, But for children, could I do it, unto summer I would cling; For I'm happiest when I see 'em, as a wild and merry band Of healthy, lusty youngsters that the summer sun has tanned.

October

Days are gettin' shorter an' the air a keener snap; Apples now are droppin' into Mother Nature's lap; The mist at dusk is risin' over valley, marsh an' fen An' it's just as plain as sunshine, winter's comin' on again.

The turkeys now are struttin' round the old farmhouse once more; They are done with all their nestin', and their hatchin' days are o'er; Now the farmer's cuttin' fodder for the silo towerin' high An' he's frettin' an' complainin' 'cause the corn's a bit too dry.

But the air is mighty peaceful an' the scene is good to see, An' there's somethin' in October that stirs deep inside o' me; An' I just can't help believin' in a God above us, when Everything is ripe for harvest an the frost is back again.

On Quitting

How much grit do you think you've got? Can you quit a thing that you like a lot? You may talk of pluck; it's an easy word, And where'er you go it is often heard; But can you tell to a jot or guess Just how much courage you now possess?

You may stand to trouble and keep your grin, But have you tackled self-discipline? Have you ever issued commands to you To quit the things that you like to do, And then, when tempted and sorely swayed, Those rigid orders have you obeyed?

Don't boast of your grit till you've tried it out, Nor prate to men of your courage stout, For it's easy enough to retain a grin In the face of a fight there's a chance to win, But the sort of grit that is good to own Is the stuff you need when you're all alone.