Why go not where the flowers bloom, And birds make music in the trees, Where all is joy, there is no gloom, And life and health ride on the breeze? Is it for love of doing good, And working out the Master’s plan, Or doing as all others should, To elevate our fellow man? There is a motive in the mind, That moves to noble, gen’rous deeds, To sacrifice and actions kind, And to relieving human needs. Some ruling thought, some spirit fair, Or inward spring I can not see, Whate’er it is, love must be there. O that I knew what it can be. Arouse, my soul, increase my sight, Awake, my muse, stay my blindness, Ah! now I see by brighter light, ’Tis the milk of human kindness. There is a fountain whence it flows, A source from whence it takes its start, Reviving hopes as on it goes, That fountain is the human heart. God bless the hearts that feed the stream, That fills the soul with tenderness, God bless the lives that yield the cream, From the milk of human kindness. THE WORKING GIRL. Text: A newspaper item said that shop girls are often insulted on the streets by men who assume that they are immoral because they are poor. I am only a working girl, ’tis true, And my mother a widow poor and weak; I am glad when I find some work to do, For the bloom has faded from mother’s cheek. There are four little ones to clothe and feed, And mother must work sixteen hours a day; She struggles hard to provide what they need, And I know is wearing her life away. I am old enough to go out and work, And healthy and strong, thanks to mother’s care, I could not bear my duty to shirk, And mother’s burdens I am pleased to share. The money I earn pays for coal and rent, And mother furnishes the food we eat, Ev’ry dollar she gets is wisely spent, And our cottage is always clean and neat. Mother takes washing and sewing to do, And works like a slave until late at night, I help her each evening an hour or two, And don’t complain for I know it is right. I go to the church and the Sunday School, And perform all my duties well and true, I strive hard to live by the golden rule, And that’s about all a poor girl can do. We’re not so unhappy as you might think, For love reigns supreme in our humble dome, And tho often near to starvation’s brink, No money could coax me to leave my home. Mother is cheerful and good as can be, And sings to us nightly songs that are choice, No sound ever heard is so dear to me, As the rich sweet sound of my mother’s voice. I met a strange man on the street one day, With a dashing style and a brazen cheek, Who said “Good night, my dear, just come my way,” And alarmed me so that I could not speak.