THE BOY THAT WAS

When the hair about the temples starts to show
the signs of gray,
And a fellow realizes that he’s wandering far
away
From the pleasures of his boyhood and his
youth, and never more
Will know the joy of laughter as he did in days
of yore,
Oh, it’s then he starts to thinking of a stubby
little lad
With a face as brown as berries and a soul
supremely glad.
When a gray-haired dreamer wanders down the
lanes of memory
And forgets the living present for the time of
” used-to-be,”
He takes off his shoes and stockings, and he
throws his coat away,
And he’s free from all restrictions, save the rules
of manly play.
He may be in richest garments, but bareheaded
in the sun
He forgets his proud successes and the riches
he has won.
Oh, there’s not a man alive but that would give
his all to be
The stubby little fellow that in dreamland he
can see,
And the splendors that surround him and the
joys about him spread
Only seem to rise to taunt him with the boyhood
that has fled.
When the hair about the temples starts to show
Time’s silver stain,
Then the richest man that’s living yearns to be
a boy again.

THE JUNK BOX

My father often used to say :
” My boy don’t throw a thing away :
You’ll find a use for it some day.”
So in a box he stored up things,
Bent nails, old washers, pipes and rings,
And bolts and nuts and rusty springs.
Despite each blemish and each flaw,
Some use for everything he saw;
With things material, this was law.
And often when he’d work to do,
He searched the junk box through and through
And found old stuff as good as new.
And I have often thought since then,
That father did the same with men;
He knew he’d need their help again.
It seems to me he understood
That men, as well as iron and wood,
May broken be and still be good.
Despite the vices he’d display
He never threw a man away,
But kept him for another day.
A human junk box is this earth
And into it we’re tossed at birth,
To wait the day we’ll be of worth.
Though bent and twisted, weak of will,
And full of flaws and lacking skill,
Some service each can render still.

ROSES

When God first viewed the rose He’d made
He smiled, and thought it passing fair;
Upon the bloom His hands He laid,
And gently blessed each petal there.
He summoned in His artists then
And bade them paint, as ne’er before,
Each petal, so that earthly men
Might love the rose for evermore.
With Heavenly brushes they began
And one with red limned every leaf,
To signify the love of man;
The first rose, white, betokened grief;
” My rose shall deck the bride/’ one said
And so in pink he dipped his brush,
” And it shall smile beside the dead
To typify the faded blush.”
And then they came unto His throne
And laid the roses at His feet,
The crimson bud, the bloom full blown,
Filling the air with fragrance sweet.
” Well done, well done ! ” the Master spake ;
“Henceforth the rose shall bloom on earth:
One fairer blossom I will make,”
And then a little babe had birth.
On earth a loving mother lay
Within a rose-decked room and smiled,
But from the blossoms turned away
To gently kiss her little child,
And then she murmured soft and low,
” For beauty, here, a mother seeks,
None but the Master made, I know,
The roses in a baby’s cheeks.”

THE NEIGHBORLY MAN

Some are eager to be famous, some are striving
to be great,
Some are toiling to be leaders of their nation
or their state,
And in every man’s ambition, if we only under-
stood,
There is much that’s fine and splendid; every
hope is mostly good.
So I cling unto the notion that contented I
will be
If the men upon life’s pathway find a needed
friend in me.
I rather like to putter ’round the walks and
yards of life,
To spray at night the roses that are burned and
browned with strife;
To eat a frugal dinner, but always to have a
chair
For the unexpected stranger that my simple
meal would share.
I don’t care to be a traveler, I would rather be
the one
Sitting calmly by the roadside helping weary
travelers on.
I’d like to be a neighbor in the good old-fash-
ioned way,
Finding much to do for others, but not over
much to say.
I like to read the papers, but I do not yearn
to see
What the journal of the morning has been
moved to say of me ;
In the silences and shadows I would live my
life and die
And depend for fond remembrance on some
grateful passers-by.
I guess I wasn’t fashioned for the brilliant
things of earth,
Wasn’t gifted much with talent or designed for
special worth,
But was just sent here to putter with life’s little
odds and ends
And keep a simple corner where the stirring
highway bends,
And if folks should chance to linger, worn and
weary through the day,
To do some needed service and to cheer them
on their way.

A REAL MAN

Men are of two kinds, and he
Was of the kind I’d like to be.
Some preach their virtues, and a few
Express their lives by what they do.
That sort was he. No flowery phrase
Or glibly spoken words of praise
Won friends for him. He wasn’t cheap
Or shallow, but his course ran deep,
And it was pure. You know the kind.
Not many in a life you find
Whose deeds outrun their words so far
That more than what they seem they are.
There are two kinds of lies as well:
The kind you live, the ones you tell.
Back through his years from age to youth
He never acted one untruth.
Out in the open light he fought
And didn’t care what others thought
Nor what they said about his fight
If he believed that he was right.
The only deeds he ever hid
Were acts of kindness that he did.
What speech he had was plain and blunt.
His was an unattractive front.
Yet children loved him; babe and boy
Played with the strength he could employ,
Without one fear, and they are fleet
To sense injustice and deceit.
No back door gossip linked his name
With any shady tale of shame.
He did not have to compromise
With evil-doers, shrewd and wise,
And let them ply their vicious trade
Because of some past escapade.
Men are of two kinds, and he
Was of the kind I’d like to be.
No door at which he ever knocked
Against his manly form was locked.
If ever man on earth was free
And independent, it was he.
No broken pledge lost him respect,
He met all men with head erect,
And when he passed I think there went
A soul to yonder firmament
So white, so splendid and so fine
It came almost to God’s design.

EXPECTATION

Most folks, as I’ve noticed, in pleasure an’
strife,
Are always expecting too much out of life.
They wail an’ they fret
Just because they don’t get
The best o’ the sunshine, the fairest o’ flowers,
The finest o’ features, the strongest o’ powers;
They whine an’ they whimper an’ curse an’
condemn,
Coz life isn’t always bein’ partial to them.
Notwithstandin’ the pain an’ the sufferin’ they
see,
They cling to the notion that they should go
free:
That they shouldn’t share
In life’s trouble an’ care
But should always be happy an’ never perplexed,
An’ never discouraged or beaten or vexed.
When life treats ‘em roughly an’ jolts ‘em with
care,
They seem to imagine it’s bein 1 unfair.
It’s a curious notion folks hold in their pride,
That their souls should never be tested or tried ;
That others must mourn
An’ be sick an’ forlorn
An’ stand by the biers of their loved ones an’
weep,
But life from such sorrows their bosoms must
keep.
Oh, they mustn’t know what it means to be sad,
Or they’ll wail that the treatment they’re gettin’
is bad.
Now life as I view it means pleasure an’ pain,
An’ laughter an’ weepin’ an’ sunshine an’ rain,
An’ takin’ an’ givin’ ;
An’ all who are livin’
Must face it an’ bear it the best that they can
Believin’ great Wisdom is workin’ the plan.
An’ no one should ever complain it’s unfair
Because at the moment he’s tastin’ despair.

THE THINGS THAT HAVEN’T BEEN DONE BEFORE

The things that haven’t been done before,
Those are the things to try;
Columbus dreamed of an unknown shore
At the rim of the far-flung sky,
And his heart was bold and his faith was strong
As he ventured in dangers new,
And he paid no heed to the jeering throng
Or the fears of the doubting crew.
The many will follow the beaten track
With guideposts on the way,
They live and have lived for ages back
With a chart for every day.
Someone has told them it’s safe to go
On the road he has traveled o’er,
And all that they ever strive to know
Are the things that were known before.
A few strike out, without map or chart,
Where never a man has been,
From the beaten paths they draw apart
To see what no man has seen.
There are deeds they hunger alone to do;
Though battered and bruised and sore,
They blaze the path for the many, who
Do nothing not done before.
The things that haven’t been done before
Are the tasks worth while to-day;
Are you one of the flock that follows, or
Are you one that shall lead the way?
Are you one of the timid souls that quail
At the jeers of a doubting crew,
Or dare you, whether you win or fail,
Strike out for a goal that’s new?

THE FINER THOUGHT

How fine it is at night to say:
” I have not wronged a soul to-day.
I have not by a word or deed,
In any breast sowed anger’s seed,
Or caused a fellow being pain;
Nor is there on my crest a stain
That shame has left. In honor’s way,
With head erect, I’ve lived this day/’
When night slips down and day departs
And rest returns to weary hearts,
How fine it is to close the book
Of records for the day, and look
Once more along the traveled mile
And find that all has been worth while;
To say : ” In honor I have toiled ;
My plume is spotless and unsoiled.”
Yet cold and stern a man may be
Retaining his integrity;
And he may pass from day to day
A spirit dead, in living clay,
Observing strictly morals, laws,
Yet serving but a selfish cause;
So it is not enough to say:
” I have not stooped to shame to-day ! ”
It is a finer, nobler thought
When day is done and night has brought
The contemplative hours and sweet,
And rest to weary hearts and feet,
If man can stand in truth and say:
” I have been useful here to-day.
Back there is one I chanced to see
With hope newborn because of me.
” This day in honor I have toiled ;
My shining crest is still unsoiled;
But on the mile I leave behind
Is one who says that I was kind;
And someone hums a cheerful song
Because I chanced to come along.”
Sweet rest at night that man shall own
Who has not lived his day alone.

THE OBLIGATION OF FRIENDSHIP

You ought to be fine for the sake of the folks
Who think you are fine.
If others have faith in you doubly you’re bound
To stick to the line.
It’s not only on you that dishonor descends:
You can’t hurt yourself without hurting your
friends.
You ought to be true for the sake of the folks
Who believe you are true.
You never should stoop to a deed that your
friends
Think you wouldn’t do.
If you’re false to yourself, be the blemish but
small,
You have injured your friends ; you’ve been false
to them all
For friendship, my boy, is a bond between men
That is founded on truth:
It believes in the best of the ones that it loves,
Whether old man or youth;
And the stern rule it lays down for me and for
you
Is to be what our friends think we are, through
and through.

THE STATES

There is no star within the flag
That’s brighter than its brothers,
And when of Michigan I brag,
I’m boasting of the others.
Just which is which no man can say
One star for every state
Gleams brightly on our flag to-day,
And every one is great.
The stars that gem the skies at night
May differ in degree,
And some are pale and some are bright,
But in our flag we see
A sky of blue wherein the stars
Are equal in design;
Each has the radiance of Mars
And all are yours and mine.
The glory that is Michigan’s
Is Colorado’s too;
The same sky Minnesota spans,
The same sun warms it through;
And all are one beneath the flag,
A common hope is ours;
Our country is the mountain crag,
The valley and its flowers.
The land we love lies far away
As well as close at hand ;
He has no vision who would say:
This state’s my native land.
Though sweet the charms he knows the best,
Deep down within his heart
The farthest east, the farthest west
Of him must be a part.
There is no star within the flag
That’s brighter than its brothers;
So when of Michigan I brag
I’m boasting of the others.
We share alike one purpose true;
One common end awaits;
We must in all we dream or do
Remain United States,

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