If I were sending a boy away, I should hold him close on the parting day And give him my trust. Through thick and thin I should tell him I counted on him to win, To keep his word at whatever cost, To play the man though his fight be lost. But beyond all that I should whisper low: "If trouble comes, let your father know; Come to him, son, as you used to do When you were little--he'll see you through. I am trusting you in a distant land. You trust your father to understand. "Trust me wherever you chance to be, Know there is nothing to hide from me, Tell me it all--your tale of woe, The sting of failure that hurts you so. Never, whatever your plight may be, Think it something to hide from me; Come to me first in your hour of need, Come though you know that my heart will bleed! Boy, when the shadows of trouble fall, Come to your father first of all." _The White Oak_ The white oak keeps its leaves till spring when other trees are bare, And who will take the time to look, will find the young bud there; The young bud nestled snug and warm against the winter's cold; The young bud being sheltered by the knowledge of the old. And when the spring shall come again--and gentle turns the day, The youthful bud will swell with strength and thrust the old away; The youthful bud will seek the breeze and hunger for the sun, And down to earth will fall the old with all its duty done. Then, heedless of the parent leaf, the youthful bud will grow And watch the robins build their nests and watch the robins go. Then something strange will come to it when that young leaf grows old, It, too, will want to shield its babe against the winter's cold. It, too, will cling unto the tree through many a dreary day Until the spring-time comes again and it is thrust away; Then it will flutter down to earth with all its duty done, And leave behind its happy child to drink the morning sun. How like man's life from birth to close! How like the white oak tree Which keeps a shelter for its young against the storms, are we! We guard our children through the night and watch them through the day, And when at last our work is done, like leaves, we fall away. _Dirty Hands_ I have to wash myself at night before I go to bed, An' wash again when I get up, and wash before I'm fed, An' Ma inspects my neck an' ears an' Pa my hands an' shirt-- They seem to wonder why it is that I'm so fond of dirt. But Bill--my chum--an' I agree that we have never seen A feller doing anything whose hands were white an' clean.