Part 13 (1/2)

There are no G.o.ds that bring to youth The rich rewards that stalwarts claim; The G.o.d of fortune is in truth A vision and an empty name.

The toiler who through doubt and care Unto his goal and victory plods, With no one need his glory share: He is himself his favoring G.o.ds.

There are no G.o.ds that will bestow Earth's joys and blessings on a man.

Each one must choose the path he'll go, Then win from it what joy he can.

And he that battles with the odds Shall know success, but he who waits The favors of the mystic G.o.ds, Shall never come to glory's gates.

No man is greater than his will; No G.o.ds to him will lend a hand!

Upon his courage and his skill The record of his life must stand.

What honors shall befall to him, What he shall claim of fame or pelf, Depend not on the favoring whim Of fortune's G.o.d, but on himself.

The Auto

An auto is a helpful thing; I love the way the motor hums, I love each cus.h.i.+on and each spring, The way it goes, the way it comes; It saves me many a dreary mile, It brings me quickly to the smile Of those at home, and every day It adds unto my time for play.

It keeps me with my friends in touch; No journey now appears too much To make with meetings at the end: It gives me time to be a friend.

It laughs at distance, and has power To lengthen every fleeting hour.

It bears me into country new That otherwise I'd never view.

It's swift and st.u.r.dy and it strives To fill with happiness our lives; When for the doctor we've a need It brings him to our door with speed.

It saves us hours of anxious care And heavy heartache and despair.

It has its faults, but still I sing: The auto is a helpful thing.

The Handy Man

The handy man about the house Is old and bent and gray; Each morning in the yard he toils, Where all the children play; Some new task every day he finds, Some task he loves to do, The handy man about the house, Whose work is never through.

The children stand to see him toil, And watch him mend a chair; They bring their broken toys to him He keeps them in repair.

No idle moment Grandpa spends, But finds some work to do, And hums a s.n.a.t.c.h of some old song, That in his youth he knew.

He builds with wood most wondrous things: A table for the den, A music rack to please the girls, A gun case for the men.

And 'midst his paints and tools he smiles, And seems as young and gay As any of the little ones Who round him run in play.

I stopped to speak with him awhile; ”Oh, tell me, Grandpa, pray,”

I said, ”why do you work so hard Throughout the livelong day?

Your hair is gray, your back is bent, With weight of years oppressed; This is the evening of your life-- Why don't you sit and rest?”

”Ah, no,” the old man answered me, ”Although I'm old and gray, I like to work out here where I Can watch the children play.

The old have tasks that they must do; The greatest of my joys Is working on this shaded porch, And mending children's toys.”