Death robs the living, not the dead--they sweetly sleep whose tasks are done; But we are weaker than before who still must live and labor on.

For when come care and grief to us, and heavy burdens bring us woe, We miss the smiling, helpful friends on whom we leaned long years ago.

We miss the happy, tender ways of those who brought us mirth and cheer; We never gather round the hearth but that we wish our friends were near; For peace is born of simple things--a kindly word, a goodnight kiss, The prattle of a babe, and love--these are the vanished joys we miss.

The Fellowship of Books

I care not who the man may be, Nor how his tasks may fret him, Nor where he fares, nor how his cares And troubles may beset him, If books have won the love of him, Whatever fortune hands him, He'll always own, when he's alone, A friend who understands him.

Though other friends may come and go, And some may stoop to treason, His books remain, through loss or gain, And season after season The faithful friends for every mood, His joy and sorrow sharing, For old time's sake, they'll lighter make The burdens he is bearing.

Oh, he has counsel at his side, And wisdom for his duty, And laughter gay for hours of play, And tenderness and beauty, And fellowship divinely rare, True friends who never doubt him, Unchanging love, and G.o.d above, Who keeps good books about him.

When Sorrow Comes

When sorrow comes, as come it must, In G.o.d a man must place his trust.

There is no power in mortal speech The anguish of his soul to reach, No voice, however sweet and low, Can comfort him or ease the blow.

He cannot from his fellowmen Take strength that will sustain him then.

With all that kindly hands will do, And all that love may offer, too, He must believe throughout the test That G.o.d has willed it for the best.

We who would be his friends are dumb; Words from our lips but feebly come; We feel, as we extend our hands, That one Power only understands And truly knows the reason why So beautiful a soul must die.

We realize how helpless then Are all the gifts of mortal men.

No words which we have power to say Can take the sting of grief away-- That Power which marks the sparrow's fall Must comfort and sustain us all.

When sorrow comes, as come it must, In G.o.d a man must place his trust.

With all the wealth which he may own, He cannot meet the test alone, And only he may stand serene Who has a faith on which to lean.

Golf Luck

As a golfer I'm not one who cops the money; I shall always be a member of the dubs; There are times my style is positively funny; I am awkward in my handling of the clubs.

I am not a skillful golfer, nor a plucky, But this about myself I proudly say-- When I win a hole by freaky stroke or lucky, I never claim I played the shot that way.

There are times, despite my blundering behavior, When fortune seems to follow at my heels; Now and then I play supremely in her favor, And she lets me pull the rankest sort of steals; She'll give to me the friendliest a.s.sistance, I'll jump a ditch at times when I should not, I'll top the ball and get a lot of distance-- But I don't claim that's how I played the shot.

I've hooked a ball when just that hook I needed, And wondered how I ever turned the trick; I've thanked my luck for what a friendly tree did, Although my fortune made my rival sick; Sometimes my shots turn out just as I planned 'em, The sort of shots I usually play, But when up to the cup I chance to land 'em, I never claim I played 'em just that way.

There's little in my game that will commend me; I'm not a shark who shoots the course in par; I need good fortune often to befriend me; I have my faults and know just what they are.

I play golf in a desperate do-or-die way, And into traps and trouble oft I stray, But when by chance the breaks are coming my way, I do not claim I played the shots that way.

Contradictin' Joe

Heard of Contradictin' Joe?

Most contrary man I know.

Always sayin', "That's not so."

Nothing's ever said, but he Steps right up to disagree-- Quarrelsome as he can be.

If you start in to recite All the details of a fight, He'll b.u.t.t in to set you right.

Start a story that is true, He'll begin correctin' you-- Make you out a liar, too!

Mention time o' year or day, Makes no difference what you say, Nothing happened just that way.

Bet you, when his soul takes flight, An' the angels talk at night, He'll b.u.t.t in to set 'em right.

There where none should have complaints He will be with "no's" and "ain'ts"

Contradictin' all the saints.

The Better Job

If I were running a factory I'd stick up a sign for all to see; I'd print it large and I'd nail it high On every wall that the men walked by; And I'd have it carry this sentence clear: "The 'better job' that you want is here!"

It's the common trait of the human race To pack up and roam from place to place; Men have done it for ages and do it now; Seeking to better themselves somehow They quit their posts and their tools they drop For a better job in another shop.

It may be I'm wrong, but I hold to this-- That something surely must be amiss When a man worth while must move away For the better job with the better pay; And something is false in our own renown When men can think of a better town.

So if I were running a factory I'd stick up this sign for all to see, Which never an eye in the place could miss: "There isn't a better town than this!

You need not go wandering, far or near-- The 'better job' that you want is here!"

My Religion

My religion's lovin' G.o.d, who made us, one and all, Who marks, no matter where it be, the humble sparrow's fall; An' my religion's servin' Him the very best I can By not despisin' anything He made, especially man!

It's lovin' sky an' earth an' sun an' birds an' flowers an' trees, But lovin' human beings more than any one of these.