Though some may yearn for titles great, and seek the frills of fame, I do not care to have an extra handle to my name. I am not hungry for the pomp of life's high dignities, I do not sigh to sit among the honored LL. D.'s. I shall be satisfied if I can be unto the end, To those I know and live with here, a simple, first-name friend. There's nothing like the comradeship which warms the lives of those Who make the glorious circle of the Jacks and Bills and Joes. With all his majesty and power, Old Caesar never knew The joy of first-name fellowship, as all the Eddies do. Let them who will be "mistered" here and raised above the rest; I hold a first-name greeting is by far the very best. Acquaintance calls for dignity. You never really know The man on whom the terms of pomp you feel you must bestow. Professor William Joseph Wise may be your friend, but still You are not certain of the fact till you can call him Bill. But hearts grow warm and lips grow kind, and all the shamming ends, When you are in the company of good old first-name friends. The happiest men on earth are not the men of highest rank; That joy belongs to George, and Jim, to Henry and to Frank; With them the prejudice of race and creed and wealth depart, And men are one in fellowship and always light of heart. So I would live and laugh and love until my sun descends, And share the joyous comradeship of honest first-name friends. The Furnace Door My father is a peaceful man; He tries in every way he can To live a life of gentleness And patience all the while. He says that needless fretting's vain, That it's absurd to be profane, That nearly every wrong can be Adjusted with a smile. Yet try no matter how he will, There's one thing that annoys him still, One thing that robs him of his calm And leaves him very sore; He cannot keep his self-control When with a shovel full of coal He misses where it's headed for, And hits the furnace door. He measures with a careful eye The space for which he's soon to try, Then grabs his trusty shovel up And loads it in the bin, Then turns and with a healthy lunge, That's two parts swing and two parts plunge, He lets go at the furnace fire, Convinced it will go in! And then we hear a sudden smack, The cellar air turns blue and black; Above the rattle of the coal We hear his awful roar. From dreadful language upward hissed We know that father's aim has missed, And that his shovel full of coal Went up against the door. The minister was here one day For supper, and Pa went away To fix the furnace fire, and soon We heard that awful roar. And through the furnace pipes there came Hot words that made Ma blush for shame. "It strikes me," said the minister, "He hit the furnace door." Ma turned away and hung her head; "I'm so ashamed," was all she said. And then the minister replied: "Don't worry. I admit That when I hit the furnace door, And spill the coal upon the floor, I quite forget the cloth I wear And--er--swear a little bit." Out Fishin'