uld see some shady lane
Where's he walking with his sweetheart, young, and arm in arm again.

We should meet with friendly people, simple, tender folk and kind,
That had once been glad to love him. In his dreaming we should find
All the many little beauties that enrich the lives of men
That the eyes of youth scarce notice and the poets seldom pen.

Age will tell you that the memory is the treasure-house of man.
Gold and fleeting fame may vanish, but life's riches never can;
For the little home of laughter and the voice of every friend
And the joys of real contentment linger with us to the end.

My Job

I wonder where's a better job than buying cake and meat,
And chocolate drops and sugar buns for little folks to eat?
And who has every day to face a finer round of care
Than buying frills and furbelows for little folks to wear?

Oh, you may brag how much you know and boast of what you do,
And think an all-important post has been assigned to you,
But I've the greatest job on earth, a task I'll never lose;
I've several pairs of little feet to keep equipped with shoes.

I rather like the job I have, though humble it may be,
And little gold or little fame may come from it to me;
It seems to me that life can give to man no finer joy
Than buying little breeches for a sturdy little boy.

My job is not to run the world or pile up bonds and stocks;
It's just to keep two little girls in plain and fancy frocks;
To dress and feed a growing boy whose legs are brown and stout,
And furnish stockings just as fast as he can wear them out.

I would not for his crown and throne change places with a king,
I've got the finest job on earth and unto it I'll cling;
I know no better task than mine, no greater chance for joys,
Than serving day by day the needs of little girls and boys.

A Good Name

Men talk too much of gold and fame,
And not enough about a name;
And yet a good name's better far
Than all earth's glistening jewels are.
Who holds his name above all price
And chooses every sacrifice
To keep his earthly record clear,
Can face the world without a fear.

Who never cheats nor lies for gain,
A poor man may, perhaps, remain,
Yet, when at night he goes to rest,
No little voice within his breast
Disturbs his slumber. Conscience clear,
He falls asleep with naught to fear
And when he wakes the world to face
He is not tainted by disgrace.

Who keeps his name without a stain
Wears no man's brand and no man