Age will tell you that the memory is the treasure-house of man. Gold and fleeting fame may vanish, but life's riches never can; For the little home of laughter and the voice of every friend And the joys of real contentment linger with us to the end. My Job I wonder where's a better job than buying cake and meat, And chocolate drops and sugar buns for little folks to eat? And who has every day to face a finer round of care Than buying frills and furbelows for little folks to wear? Oh, you may brag how much you know and boast of what you do, And think an all-important post has been assigned to you, But I've the greatest job on earth, a task I'll never lose; I've several pairs of little feet to keep equipped with shoes. I rather like the job I have, though humble it may be, And little gold or little fame may come from it to me; It seems to me that life can give to man no finer joy Than buying little breeches for a sturdy little boy. My job is not to run the world or pile up bonds and stocks; It's just to keep two little girls in plain and fancy frocks; To dress and feed a growing boy whose legs are brown and stout, And furnish stockings just as fast as he can wear them out. I would not for his crown and throne change places with a king, I've got the finest job on earth and unto it I'll cling; I know no better task than mine, no greater chance for joys, Than serving day by day the needs of little girls and boys. A Good Name Men talk too much of gold and fame, And not enough about a name; And yet a good name's better far Than all earth's glistening jewels are. Who holds his name above all price And chooses every sacrifice To keep his earthly record clear, Can face the world without a fear. Who never cheats nor lies for gain, A poor man may, perhaps, remain, Yet, when at night he goes to rest, No little voice within his breast Disturbs his slumber. Conscience clear, He falls asleep with naught to fear And when he wakes the world to face He is not tainted by disgrace. Who keeps his name without a stain Wears no man's brand and no man's chain; He need not fear to speak his mind In dread of what the world may find. He then is master of his will; None may command him to be still, Nor force him, when he would stand fast, To flinch before his hidden past. Not all the gold that men may claim Can cover up a deed of shame; Not all the fame of victory sweet Can free the man who played the cheat; He lives a slave unto the last Unto the shame that mars his past. He only freedom here may own Whose name a stain has never known. Alone Strange thoughts come to the man alone; 'Tis then, if ever, he talks with God, And views himself as a single clod In the soil of life where the souls are grown. 'Tis then he questions the why and where, The start and end of his years and days, And what is blame and what is praise, And what is ugly and what is fair.