We found the car beneath a tree. "The steering knuckle broke," said he; "The driver's dead; they say his wife Will be an invalid for life. I wonder how the man must feel Who made that faulty steering wheel." It seemed a curious thought, and I Sat thinking, as the cars went by, About the man who made the wheel And shaped that knuckle out of steel; I tried to visualize the scene-- The man, the steel and the machine. Perhaps the workman never saw An indication of the flaw; Or, seeing it, he fancied it Would not affect his work a bit, And said: "It's good enough to go-- I'll pass it on. They'll never know." "It's not exactly to my best But it may pass the final test; And should it break, no man can know It was my hand that made it so. The thing is faulty, but perhaps We'll never hear it when it snaps." Of course the workman couldn't see The mangled car beneath the tree, The dead man, and the tortured wife Doomed to a cripple's chair for life-- His chief concern was getting by The stern inspector's eager eye. Perhaps he whistles on his way Into the factory to-day And doesn't know the ruin wrought By just one minute's careless thought. Yet human life is held at stake By nearly all that toilers make. _The Tender Blossoms_ "I will gather some flowers for our friend," she said, So into the garden with her I went And stood for awhile at the rose's bed As she stooped to her labor of sentiment. "Why not the full blown blossom there? Why do you leave it and pass it by?" Those were the questions I asked of her. And she answered me: "It is soon to die." "Here is a withered and blasted rose, Better without it the plant would be; Cut it and mingle it now with those You are taking away for your friend to see." "Here is a peony stained and torn, Take it and cling to your choicest bloom." But she answered me with a look of scorn: "These flowers are to brighten a sick friend's room." "Only the tenderest bud I'll take. Never the withered and worn and old; Of my fairest flowers is the gift I make By which my love for my friend is told." "So, when the angels call," said I, "And fold in their arms a little child, Passing the old and the broken by, Think of this and be reconciled. "Always the tenderest buds they take, Pure and lovely and undefiled. When a gift of love unto God they'd make, Always they come for a little child." _Questioning_ You shall wonder as you meet Drunkards reeling down the street, Helpless cripples and the blind, Human wrecks of every kind Living on from day to day, Why your loved one couldn't stay. These are thoughts which always come When the heart with grief is numb. "Why," the anguished mother cries, With the tears still in her eyes, "Must my baby go away And some sinful creature stay?"