“You see, Uncle Fred, what Ernest’s tendencies are! He is a Socialist. And he is a poet of the people! Think of it! Ernest, you will let Uncle Fred see your last attempt. Here it is, uncle. I made him give me a copy.” Dr. Stapleton took the paper, and read— “THE LOWER ORDERS.” Who are the “lower orders,” Not those who toil all day, And for fair wages give good work, As honest workmen may. Such men are of the noblest Who life’s rough paths have trod; Faithful to wife, and kind to child, And true to self and God. These are the higher orders, The self-restrained and strong, Too great to yield to selfishness, Too proud to do the wrong; Who copy Christ of Nazareth, And live and toil as He, And claim their right as freemen, Since He has made them free. Men talk about “the masses,” And call them “lowly born,” But many are more worthy Of reverence than of scorn. Ah! some of wealth and place might learn Of these heroic ones; And well for dear old England Were such her only sons! But of “the lower orders,” Enough and hosts to spare Has England for her sorrow, And have we all for care. The idle and the dissolute, The cowardly and base; Alas! for countries and for homes That have to give them space! They are “the lower orders,” Who practise low deceit; The drones in hives of industry, The loungers in the street, The self-indulgent sons of vice, The sullen and untrue, Whose useless hands are stretched to take, But are not skilled to do. There are no lower orders But these—the self-made low. Men are despised and scorned because They choose to have it so. Unworthiness, not poverty, Alone supplies the ban Which keeps the hand of fellowship Of man from brother man, Cannot we lift the low ones Up to a fairer height? O! Love shall be the teacher, And God will speed the right. Let us go down in loving quest These lowest ones to reach; God’s heaven has room enough for all, And His grace is for each.