kes this job a wholesome thing.

Beyond the dust and dirt and steam
I see a college where he'll go;
And when I shall fulfill my dream,
More than his father he will know;
And she shall be a woman fair,
Fit for the world to love and trust--
I'll give my land a glorious pair
Out of this place of dirt and dust.

THE HOMELY MAN

Looks as though a cyclone hit him--
Can't buy clothes that seem to fit him;
An' his cheeks are rough like leather,
Made for standin' any weather.
Outwards he wuz fashioned plainly,
Loose o' joint an' blamed ungainly,
But I'd give a lot if I'd
Been prepared so fine inside.

Best thing I can tell you of him
Is the way the children love him.
Now an' then I get to thinkin'
He is much like old Abe Lincoln--
Homely like a gargoyle graven,
An' looks worse when he's unshaven;
But I'd take his ugly phiz
Jes' to have a heart like his.

I ain't over-sentimental,
But old Blake is so blamed gentle
An' so thoughtful-like of others
He reminds us of our mothers.
Rough roads he is always smoothin',
An' his way is, oh, so soothin'
That he takes away the sting
When your heart is sorrowing.

[Illustration: _"The Homely Man"_

_From a painting by_ M. L. BOWER.]

Children gather round about him
Like they can't get on without him.
An' the old depend upon him,
Pilin' all their burdens on him,
Like as though the thing that grieves 'em
Has been lifted when he leaves 'em.
Homely? That can't be denied.
But he's glorious inside.

UNCHANGEABLE MOTHER

Mothers never change, I guess,
In their tender thoughtfulness.
Makes no difference that you grow
Up to forty years or so,
Once you cough, you'll find that she
Sees you as you used to be,
An' she wants to tell to you
All the things that you must do.

Just show symptoms of a cold,
She'll forget that you've grown old.
Though there's silver in your hair,
Still you need a mother's care,
An' she'll ask you things like these:
"You still wearing b. v. d.'s?
Summer days have long since gone,
You should have your flannels on."

Grown and married an' maybe
Father of a family,
But to mother you are still
Just her boy when you are ill;
Just the lad that used to need
Plasters made of mustard seed;
An' she thinks she has to see
That you get your flaxseed tea.

Mothers never change, I guess,
In their tender thoughtfulness.
All her gentle long life through
She is bent on nursing you;
An' although you may be grown,
She still cl