Living with the people here upon the kindly earth, And finding in the strangest garb the messengers of mirth, For many a stirring tale of life the passer-by can tell, And every man is worth your while if but you know him well. Living with the people, the rich, the poor, the wise, The same breeze blowing over them, the same sun in their eyes; And this you learn from high and low, throughout life's stretch of years, We're brothers in the joys we take and brothers in our tears. I'm sorry for the haughty man who holds his head in air, And passes by in cold disdain the garbs of toil and care, For though he may be rich and great, 'tis lonely he must live, He misses all the glorious joys his fellows have to give. Oh, walk with them and talk with them and hear the tales they tell, The passers-by would be your friends if but you knew them well. The children of the Lord are they, and as they come and go, There is not one among them all that is not good to know. _The Carving Knife_ When I was but a little lad, my father carved what meat we had; With grace and skill he'd cut and slice the roast of beef or veal, With dexterous hand he'd wield the blade, no false or awkward move he made, And deftly he could whet the knife upon his shining steel. But now and then I'd hear him say: "Who's used my carving knife today? What woman's used this blade of mine for cutting wire or tin?" And on this special point he'd harp: "a carving weapon must be sharp, Or one can never cut a roast and have the slices thin." "That knife must not be used on string, or bread or boards or anything-- Hands off my carving blade," he'd cry, and yet I grieve to say, In spite of all his warnings grim, the women paid no heed to him, They used his sacred carving knife a dozen times a day. They'd use that knife for cutting soap, old carpets, leather belts and rope, They'd use it too, for pulling tacks and leave it dulled and nicked, And every time a meal began, my father was an angry man, But vain was every oath he swore and every kick he kicked. Now like my good old dad I stand, and take the carving knife in hand And run my thumb along its edge and find it dulled and nicked, And like my good old dad I vow some day there'll be a healthy row, But I'm as unsuccessful as my father when he kicked. The maid, the youngsters and the wife still take that sacred carving knife And use it as a handy tool on wood or lead or stone; In spite of all I do or say, the blade is dulled from day to day, I cannot get the women folks to leave that knife alone! _Take a Boy Along With You_