Vain is the skill of workmen great; Unless the boy who makes the crate Shall give his best to driving nails, The work of all the others fails. There is no unimportant task. Whatever duty life may ask, On it depends the greater plan-- There is no unimportant man! _Bill and I Went Fishing_ Bill and I went fishing. Quit our beds at four, Got a hasty breakfast and softly closed the door, Packed the bait and tackle, pushed the boat away, Took the oars and started--without a word to say. Lake was smooth as crystal, sun was breaking through With a blaze of glory--old, but always new; Bill and I both watched it, grateful for the day, Spellbound by the beauty--but not a word to say. Threw the anchor over, started in to fish, Heard the reels a-clicking, heard the wet lines swish, Now and then we'd get one big enough to play, Sport and plenty of it--but not a word to say. Bill was busy dreaming, I was thinking, too, Lazy-like and wondering what makes skies so blue; Puffed our pipes in silence, let our minds just stray 'Round and 'round about us--but not a word to say. Got back home that evening, happy as could be, I was proud of William, he was proud of me, Just the pal for fishing. Here's the common touch-- Said it of each other--"Never talks too much." _Easter_ They found the great stone rolled away And Him whom men had crucified, With cruel spears had pierced His side And mocked with jests and gibes that day, Gone from the darkness and the gloom Of Death's grim tomb. Where He had slept in Death's embrace The linen of His shroud was piled, And white-robed angels gently smiled And bade them walk into the place. "The Lord is risen!" to them they said, "He is not dead." Keep ye the faith and still be brave! From every tomb that Easter day The stone of death was rolled away; The soul lives on beyond the grave, Death is but rest from pain and strife-- The gate to life! _October_ October and the crimsoned trees, The smell of smoke upon the breeze, The morning mist and autumn's chill, The brown of death upon the hill-- And yet, a sense of loveliness Which pen or brush cannot express. A strange, mysterious calm which seems The canvas of a thousand dreams; The calm of duty nobly done, The peace of battles truly won, The joy with which all hearts are thrilled, A sense of promises fulfilled. Beyond October winter waits To pile its snow before the gates; What men call death shall hurl its stroke Alike at plant or giant oak-- And yet beneath the snowdrifts deep We know the violets merely sleep. Mankind has its October, too, When little more there is to do, And we may claim the sweet content Of strength that has been nobly spent-- And yet we fear, when comes the snow, There is no spring where we shall go.