Oh, the race dies out and the clan departs, and feeble grows the son When they come at last to the dreadful day when all of the work is done. For manhood dies on the roads of ease where the skies are ever blue, And each of us needs, if we shall grow strong, some difficult thing to do. _The Training of Jimmy McBride_ Jimmy McBride was a common sense lad, The son of a common sense mother and dad Who had borne him and bred him to labor. He'd been taught what a common sense lad understands, That the Lord in His wisdom had given him hands For handling a pick or a sabre. "Your feet are for walking," his father once said, "To see with, God gave you two eyes in your head, And your mouth is for eating and drinking; And that you'll remember I'm making it plain, You've also been given what men call a brain, And the brain is put in there for thinking. "Now you've all the equipment the greatest possess, And some men have risen to glory with less, So don't be afraid, but go to it; If it's honest, and useful, and ought to be done, Don't think it beneath you, but jump in, my son-- Go straight to your duty and do it." When Jimmy came home with the dirt on his face They never once said: "It's a shame and disgrace! Poor boy, you are worn out and weary!" No pity for Jimmy his labors inspired. His old father said: "It is sweet to be tired, It makes the home-coming so cheery." His old mother said with the pride in her eye, "There's nothing like work to put flavor in pie. Come in and sit down to your dinner." And they said to themselves when he'd gone to his bed, "He's earning his way and he's forging ahead-- Our Jimmy McBride is a winner." And when their old age came upon them at last, No touch of regret stole the joy from the past, Nor envy of happier neighbor. And they thanked the good Lord who had sent them their Jim That they'd had the wisdom in dealing with him To teach him the value of labor. _The Scoutmaster_ There isn't any pay for you, you serve without reward; The boys who tramp the fields with you but little could afford; And yet your pay is richer far than men who toil for gold, For in a dozen different ways your service shall be told. You'll read it in the faces of a troop of growing boys, You'll read it in the pleasure of a dozen manly joys; And down the distant future--you will surely read it then, Emblazoned through the service of a band of loyal men. Five years of willing labor and of brothering a troop; Five years of trudging highways, with the Indian cry and whoop; Five years of camp fires burning, not alone for pleasure's sake, But the future generation which these boys are soon to make.