Part 10 (1/2)

And so, more thoughtful than I am, He talks of lofty things, And thus an evening hour we spend Sedate and grave as kings.

And should my soul be torn with grief Upon my shelf I find A little volume, torn and thumbled, For comfort just designed.

I take my little Bible down And read its pages o'er, And when I part from it I find I'm stronger than before.

Success

I hold no dream of fortune vast, Nor seek undying fame.

I do not ask when life is past That many know my name.

I may not own the skill to rise To glory's topmost height, Nor win a place among the wise, But I can keep the right.

And I can live my life on earth Contented to the end, If but a few shall know my worth And proudly call me friend.

Questions

Would you sell your boy for a stack of gold?

Would you miss that hand that is yours to hold?

Would you take a fortune and never see The man, in a few brief years, he'll be?

Suppose that his body were racked with pain, How much would you pay for his health again?

Is there money enough in the world to-day To buy your boy? Could a monarch pay You silver and gold in so large a sum That you'd have him blinded or stricken dumb?

How much would you take, if you had the choice, Never to hear, in this world, his voice?

How much would you take in exchange for all The joy that is wrapped in that youngster small?

Are there diamonds enough in the mines of earth To equal your dreams of that youngster's worth?

Would you give up the hours that he's on your knee The richest man in the world to be?

You may prate of gold, but your fortune lies, And you know it well, in your boy's bright eyes.

And there's nothing that money can buy or do That means so much as that boy to you.

Well, which does the most of your time employ, The chase for gold--or that splendid boy?

Sausage

You may brag about your breakfast foods you eat at break of day, Your crisp, delightful shavings and your stack of last year's hay, Your toasted flakes of rye and corn that fairly swim in cream, Or rave about a sawdust mash, an epicurean dream.

But none of these appeals to me, though all of them I've tried-- The breakfast that I liked the best was sausage mother fried.

Old country sausage was its name; the kind, of course, you know, The little links that seemed to be almost as white as snow, But turned unto a ruddy brown, while sizzling in the pan; Oh, they were made both to appease and charm the inner man.

All these new-fangled dishes make me blush and turn aside, When I think about the sausage that for breakfast mother fried.