Remember how he drew The child-heart to his own, And taught the parable anew, And reaped as he had sown; Remember with what cheer He filled the little lives, And stayed the sob and dried the tear With mirth that still survives. All duties to his kind It was his joy to fill; With nature gentle and refined, Yet dauntless soul and will, He met the trying need Of every troublous call, Yet high and clear and glad indeed He sung above it all. Ay, listen! Still we hear The patriot song, the lay Of love, the woodland note so dear-- These will not die away. Then say not he is dead, The friend we honor so, But lift a grateful voice instead And say: He lives, we know. THE HIGHEST GOOD WRITTEN FOR A HIGH-SCHOOL ANNUAL To attain the highest good Of true man and womanhood, Simply do your honest best-- God with joy will do the rest. MY CONSCIENCE Sometimes my Conscience says, says he, "Don't you know me?" And I, says I, skeered through and through, "Of course I do. You air a nice chap ever' way, I'm here to say! You make me cry--you make me pray, And all them good things thataway-- That is, at _night_. Where do you stay Durin' the day?" And then my Conscience says, onc't more, "You know me--shore?" "Oh, yes," says I, a-trimblin' faint, "You're jes' a saint! Your ways is all so holy-right, I love you better ever' night You come around,--tel' plum daylight, When you air out o' sight!" And then my Conscience sort o' grits His teeth, and spits On his two hands and grabs, of course, Some old remorse, And beats me with the big butt-end O' _that_ thing--tel my clostest friend 'Ud hardly know me. "Now," says he, "Be keerful as you'd orto be And _allus_ think o' me!" MY BOY You smile and you smoke your cigar, my boy; You walk with a languid swing; You tinkle and tune your guitar, my boy, And you lift up your voice and sing; The midnight moon is a friend of yours, And a serenade your joy-- And it's only an age like mine that cures A trouble like yours, my boy! THE OBJECT LESSON Barely a year ago I attended the Friday afternoon exercises of a country school. My mission there, as I remember, was to refresh my mind with such material as might be gathered, for a "valedictory," which, I regret to say, was to be handed down to posterity under another signature than my own.