Part 11 (1/2)

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, l.u.s.ty 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 suns.h.i.+ne, 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 G.o.d 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.

How much grit do you think you've got?

Can you turn from joys that you like a lot?

Have you ever tested yourself to know How far with yourself your will can go?

If you want to know if you have grit, Just pick out a joy that you like, and quit.

It's bully sport and it's open fight; It will keep you busy both day and night; For the toughest kind of a game you'll find Is to make your body obey your mind.

And you never will know what is meant by grit Unless there's something you've tried to quit.

The Price of Riches

n.o.body stops at the rich man's door to pa.s.s the time of day.

n.o.body shouts a ”h.e.l.lo!” to him in the good old-fas.h.i.+oned way.

n.o.body comes to his porch at night and sits in that extra chair And talks till it's time to go to bed. He's all by himself up there.

n.o.body just happens in to call on the long, cold winter nights.

n.o.body feels that he's welcome now, though the house is ablaze with lights.