When Day is Done Part 3

I ain't no hand at preachin' an' I can't expound the creeds; I fancy every fellow's faith must satisfy his needs Or he would hunt for something else. An' I can't tell the why An' wherefore of the doctrines deep--and what's more I don't try.

I reckon when this life is done and we can know His plan, G.o.d won't be hard on anyone who's tried to be a man.

My religion doesn't hinge on some one rite or word; I hold that any honest prayer a mortal makes is heard; To love a church is well enough, but some get cold with pride An' quite forget their fellowmen for whom the Saviour died; I fancy he best wors.h.i.+ps G.o.d, when all is said an' done, Who tries to be, from day to day, a friend to everyone.

If G.o.d can mark the sparrow's fall, I don't believe He'll fail To notice us an' how we act when doubts an' fears a.s.sail; I think He'll hold what's in our hearts above what's in our creeds, An' judge all our religion here by our recorded deeds; An' since man is G.o.d's greatest work since life on earth began, He'll get to Heaven, I believe, who helps his fellowman.

What I Call Living

The miser thinks he's living when he's h.o.a.rding up his gold; The soldier calls it living when he's doing something bold; The sailor thinks it living to be tossed upon the sea, And upon this vital subject no two of us agree.

But I hold to the opinion, as I walk my way along, That living's made of laughter and good-fellows.h.i.+p and song.

I wouldn't call it living always to be seeking gold, To bank all the present gladness for the days when I'll be old.

I wouldn't call it living to spend all my strength for fame, And forego the many pleasures which to-day are mine to claim.

I wouldn't for the splendor of the world set out to roam, And forsake my laughing children and the peace I know at home.

Oh, the thing that I call living isn't gold or fame at all!

It's good-fellows.h.i.+p and suns.h.i.+ne, and it's roses by the wall; It's evenings glad with music and a hearth fire that's ablaze, And the joys which come to mortals in a thousand different ways.

It is laughter and contentment and the struggle for a goal; It is everything that's needful in the shaping of a soul.

If This Were All

If this were all of life we'll know, If this brief s.p.a.ce of breath Were all there is to human toil, If death were really death, And never should the soul arise A finer world to see, How foolish would our struggles seem, How grim the earth would be!

If living were the whole of life, To end in seventy years, How pitiful its joys would seem!

How idle all its tears!

There'd be no faith to keep us true, No hope to keep us strong, And only fools would cherish dreams-- No smile would last for long.

How purposeless the strife would be If there were nothing more, If there were not a plan to serve, An end to struggle for!

No reason for a mortal's birth Except to have him die-- How silly all the goals would seem For which men bravely try.

There must be something after death; Behind the toil of man There must exist a G.o.d divine Who's working out a plan; And this brief journey that we know As life must really be The gateway to a finer world That some day we shall see.

A Christmas Carol

G.o.d bless you all this Christmas Day And drive the cares and griefs away.

Oh, may the s.h.i.+ning Bethlehem star Which led the wise men from afar Upon your heads, good sirs, still glow To light the path that ye should go.

As G.o.d once blessed the stable grim And made it radiant for Him; As it was fit to s.h.i.+eld His Son, May thy roof be a holy one; May all who come this house to share Rest sweetly in His gracious care.

Within thy walls may peace abide, The peace for which the Savior died.

Though humble be the rafters here, Above them may the stars s.h.i.+ne clear, And in this home thou lovest well May excellence of spirit dwell.

G.o.d bless you all this Christmas Day; May Bethlehem's star still light thy way And guide thee to the perfect peace When every fear and doubt shall cease.

And may thy home such glory know As did the stable long ago.

Forgotten Boyhood

He wears a long and solemn face And drives the children from his place; He doesn't like to hear them shout Or race and run and romp about, And if they chance to climb his tree, He is as ugly as can be.

If in his yard they drive a ball, Which near his pretty flowers should fall, He hides the leather sphere away, Thus hoping to prevent their play.

The youngsters worry him a lot, This sorry man who has forgot That once upon a time, he too The self-same mischief used to do.

The boyhood he has left behind Has strangely vanished from his mind, And he is old and gray and cross For having suffered such a loss.

He thinks he never had the joy That is the birthright of a boy.

He has forgotten how he ran, Or to a dog's tail tied a can, Broke window panes, and loved to swipe Some neighbor's apples, red and ripe-- He thinks that always, day or night, His conduct was exactly right.

In boys to-day he cannot see The youngster that he used to be, Forgotten is that by-gone day, When he was mischievous as they.

Poor man! I'm sorry for your lot.

The best of life you have forgot.

Could you remember what you were, Unharnessed and untouched by spur, These youngsters that you drive away Would be your comrades here to-day.

Among them you could gayly walk And share their laughter and their talk; You could be young and blithe as they, Could you recall your yesterday.

The Peaks of Valor

These are the peaks of valor; keeping clean your father's name, Too brave for petty profit to risk the brand of shame, Adventuring for the future, yet mindful of the past, For G.o.d, for country and for home, still valorous to the last.

These are the peaks of valor: a speech that knows no lie, A standard of what's right and wrong which no man's wealth can buy, All unafraid of failure, to venture forth to fight, Yet never for the victory's sake to turn away from right.

Ten thousand times the victor is he who fails to win, Who could have worn the conqueror's crown by stooping low in sin; Ten thousand times the braver is he who turns away And scorns to crush a weaker man that he may rule the day.

These are the peaks of valor: standing firm and standing true To the best your father taught you and the best you've learned anew, Helpful to all who need you, winning what joys you can, Writing in triumph to the end your record as a man.

When the Minister Calls