aims you for her own,
An' to her you'll always be
Just a youngster at her knee.

LIFE

Life is a jest;
Take the delight of it.
Laughter is best;
Sing through the night of it.
Swiftly the tear
And the hurt and the ache of it
Find us down here;
Life must be what we make of it.

Life is a song;
Let us dance to the thrill of it.
Grief's hours are long,
And cold is the chill of it.
Joy is man's need;
Let us smile for the sake of it.
This be our creed:
Life must be what we make of it.

Life is a soul;
The virtue and vice of it.
Strife for a goal,
And man's strength is the price of it.
Your life and mine,
The bare bread and the cake of it,
End in this line:
Life must be what we make of it.

[Illustration: _"Life"_

_From a charcoal drawing by_ W. T. BENDA.]

SUCCESS

This I would claim for my success--not fame nor gold,
Nor the throng's changing cheers from day to day,
Not always ease and fortune's glad display,
Though all of these are pleasant joys to hold;
But I would like to have my story told
By smiling friends with whom I've shared the way,
Who, thinking of me, nod their heads and say:
"His heart was warm when other hearts were cold.

"None turned to him for aid and found it not,
His eyes were never blind to man's distress,
Youth and old age he lived, nor once forgot
The anguish and the ache of loneliness;
His name was free from stain or shameful blot
And in his friendship men found happiness."

THE LONELY OLD FELLOW

The roses are bedded for winter, the tulips are planted for spring;
The robins and martins have left us; there are only the sparrows to sing.
The garden seems solemnly silent, awaiting its blankets of snow,
And I feel like a lonely old fellow with nowhere to turn or to go.

All summer I've hovered about them, all summer they've nodded at me;
I've wandered and waited among them the first pink of blossom to see;
I've known them and loved and caressed them, and now all their splendor
has fled,
And the harsh winds of winter all tell me the friends of my garden are
dead.

I'm a lonely old fellow, that's certain. All winter with nothing to do
But sit by the window recalling the days when my skies were all blue;
But my heart is not given to sorrow and never my lips shall complain,
For winter shall pass and the sunshine shall give me my roses again.

And so for the friends that have vanished, the friends that they