style="margin-top: 4em">What We Need

We were settin' there an' smokin' of our pipes, discussin' things,
Like licker, votes for wimmin, an' the totterin'thrones o' kings,
When he ups an' strokes his whiskers with his hand an' says t'me:
"Changin' laws an' legislatures ain't, as fur as I can see,
Goin' to make this world much better, unless somehow we can
Find a way to make a better an' a finer sort o' man.

"The trouble ain't with statutes or with systems—not at all;
It's with humans jest like we air an' their petty ways an' small.
We could stop our writin' law-books an' our regulatin' rules
If a better sort of manhood was the product of our schools.
For the things that we air needin' ain't no writin' from a pen
Or bigger guns to shoot with, but a bigger typeof men.

"I reckon all these problems air jest ornery like the weeds.
They grow in soil that oughta nourish only decent deeds,
An' they waste our time an' fret us when, if we were thinkin' straight
An' livin' right, they wouldn't be so terrible an' great.
A good horse needs no snaffle, an' a good man, I opine,
Doesn't need a law to check him or to force him into line.

"If we ever start in teachin' to our children, year by year,
How to live with one another, there'll be less o' trouble here.
If we'd teach 'em how to neighbor an' to walk in honor's ways,
We could settle every problem which the mind o' man can raise.
What we're needin' isn't systems or some regulatin' plan,
But a bigger an' a finer an' a truer type o' man."

A Boy and His Dad

A boy and his dad on a fishing-trip—
There is a glorious fellowship!
Father and son and the open sky
And the white clouds lazily drifting by,
And the laughing stream as it runs along
With the clicking reel like a martial song,
And the father teaching the youngster gay
How to land a fish in the sportsman's way.

I fancy I hear them talking there
In an open boat, and the speech is fair;
And the boy is learning the ways of men
From the finest man in his youthful ken.
Kings, to the youngster, cannot compare
With the gentle father who's with him there.
And the greatest mind of the human race
Not for one minute could take his place.

Which is happier, man or boy?
The soul of the father is steeped in joy,
For he's finding out, to his heart's delight,
That his son is fit for the future fight.
He is learning the glorious depths of him,
And the thoughts he thinks and his every whim,
And he shall discover, when night comes on,
How close he has grown to his little son.

A boy and his dad on a fishing-trip—
Oh, I envy them, as I see them there
Under the sky in the open air,
For out of the old, old long-ago
Come the summer days that I used to know,
When I learned life's truths from my father's lips
As I shared the joy of his fishing-trips—
Builders of life's companionship!

If I Had Youth

If I had youth I'd bid the world to try me;
  I'd answer every challenge to my will.
And though the silent mountains should defy me,
  I'd try to make them subject to my skill.
I'd keep my dreams and follow where they led me;
  I'd glory in the hazards which abound.
I'd eat the simple fare privations fed me,
  And gladly make my couch upon the ground.

If I had youth I'd ask no odds of distance,
  Nor wish to tread the known and level ways.
I'd want to meet and master strong resistance,
  And in a worth-while struggle spend my days.
I'd seek the task which calls for full endeavor;
  I'd feel the thrill of battle in my veins.
I'd bear my burden gallantly, and never
  Desert the hills to walk on common plains.

If I had youth no thought of failure lurking
  Beyond to-morrow's dawn should fright my soul.
Let failure strike—it still should find me working
  With faith that I should some day reach my goal.
I'd dice with danger—aye!—and glory in it;
  I'd make high stakes the purpose of my throw.
I'd risk for much, and should I fail to win it,
  I would not ever whimper at the blow.

If I had youth no chains of fear should bind me;
  I'd brave the heights which older men must shun.
I'd leave the well-worn lanes of life behind me,
  And seek to do what men have never done.
Rich prizes wait for those who do not waver;
  The world needs men to battle for the truth.
It calls each hour for stronger hearts and braver.
  This is the age for those who still have youth!

Looking Back

I might have been rich if I'd wanted the gold instead of the friendships
    I've made.
I might have had fame if I'd sought for renown in the hours when I
    purposely played.
Now I'm standing to-day on the far edge of life, and I'm just looking
    backward to see
What I've done with the years and the days that were mine, and all that
    has happened to me.

I haven't built much of a fortune to leave to those who shall carry my
    name,
And nothing I've done shall entitle me now to a place on the tablets of
    fame.
But I've loved the great sky and its spaces of blue; I've lived with the
    birds and the trees;
I've turned from the splendor of silver and gold to share in such pleasures
    as these.

I've given my time to the children who came; together we've romped and
    we've played,
And I wouldn't exchange the glad hours spent with them for the money that
    I might have made.
I chose to be known and be loved by the few, and was deaf to the plaudits
    of men;
And I'd make the same choice should the chance come to me to live my life
    over again.

I've lived with my friends and I've shared in their joys, known sorrow with
    all of its tears;
I have harvested much from my acres of life, though some say I've
    squandered my years.
For much that is fine has been mine to enjoy, and I think I have lived to
    my best,
And I have no regret, as I'm nearing the end, for the gold that I might
    have possessed.

God Made This Day for Me

Jes' the sort o' weather and jes' the sort of sky
Which seem to suit my fancy, with the white clouds driftin' by
On a sea o' smooth blue water. Oh, I ain't an egotist,
With an "I" in all my thinkin', but I'm willin' to insist
That the Lord who made us humans an' the birds in every tree
Knows my special sort o' weather an' he made this day fer me.

This is jes' my style o' weather—sunshine floodin' all the place,
An' the breezes from the eastward blowin' gently on my face;
An' the woods chock full o' singin' till you'd think birds never had
A single care to fret 'em or a grief to make 'em sad.
Oh, I settle down contented in the shadow of a tree,
An' tell myself right proudly that the day was made fer me.

It's my day, my sky an' sunshine, an' the temper o' the breeze—
Here's the weather I would fashion