With Heavenly brushes they began And one with red limned every leaf, To signify the love of man; The first rose, white, betokened grief; "My rose shall deck the bride," one said And so in pink he dipped his brush, "And it shall smile beside the dead To typify the faded blush." And then they came unto His throne And laid the roses at His feet, The crimson bud, the bloom full blown, Filling the air with fragrance sweet. "Well done, well done!" the Master spake; "Henceforth the rose shall bloom on earth: One fairer blossom I will make," And then a little babe had birth. On earth a loving mother lay Within a rose-decked room and smiled, But from the blossoms turned away To gently kiss her little child, And then she murmured soft and low, "For beauty, here, a mother seeks. None but the Master made, I know, The roses in a baby's cheeks." {185} THE JUNK BOX My father often used to say: "My boy don't throw a thing away: You'll find a use for it some day." So in a box he stored up things, Bent nails, old washers, pipes and rings, And bolts and nuts and rusty springs. Despite each blemish and each flaw, Some use for everything he saw; With things material, this was law. And often when he'd work to do, He searched the junk box through and through And found old stuff as good as new. And I have often thought since then, That father did the same with men; He knew he'd need their help again. It seems to me he understood That men, as well as iron and wood, May broken be and still be good. Despite the vices he'd display He never threw a man away, But kept him for another day. A human junk box is this earth And into it we're tossed at birth, To wait the day we'll be of worth. Though bent and twisted, weak of will, And full of flaws and lacking skill, Some service each can render still. {186} THE BOY THAT WAS When the hair about the temples starts to show the signs of gray, And a fellow realizes that he's wandering far away From the pleasures of his boyhood and his youth, and never more Will know the joy of laughter as he did in days of yore, Oh, it's then he starts to thinking of a stubby little lad With a face as brown as berries and a soul supremely glad. When a gray-haired dreamer wanders down the lanes of memory And forgets the living present for the time of "used-to-be," He takes off his shoes and stockings, and he throws his coat away, And he's free from all restrictions, save the rules of manly play. He may be in richest garments, but bareheaded in the sun He forgets his proud successes and the riches he has won.