* * * * * Life may be One Grand Sweet Song but we are generally furnishing the music by pounding the bass-drum for the fellow who is pounding the bass-drum for us. * * * * * "Love's young dream" may be the sweetest thing in life, but there is nothing like pork gravy and hot biscuit for sticking to the ribs. "There's No Use to Worry." There's no use to worry, When trouble appears, For she leaves in a hurry And bottles her tears; There's a song for each sorrow, A smile for each grief, And the joys of tomorrow Bring happy relief. There's no use to worry! This world's a good place, If you fly from its flurry And keep a bright face; There is never a sorrow That sickens the soul, If you wait for the morrow And let the cares roll! A Prayer. Lord, as I journey down the way, Grant me good work for every day, And, till my labor here is past, To work with Thee until the last! Words are poor vehicles for the carrying of thought. The glance of only one bright eye can tell a sweeter story than was ever written out in all the books of men. A Song of Green Valleys. I. A Song of Green Valleys,--the valleys new born With the gold of the wheat and the green of the corn, Where the roses arise from the dews of the night And the paths for Love's feet are a-swoon with delight! II. The Voice of the Valleys! The brooks to the seas Mingle multiplied praises with Love's lullabies, And the shouts of glad children exultingly rise From the daisies of earth to the stars of the skies. III. The calm of the Valleys! The raptures increase With the calls of content and the pleasures of peace, And the homes of the happy their gladness engage From the rose-days of youth to the snow-days of age. IV. The bliss of the Valleys! There life blossoms sweet, And the night-time and noon time in melody meet, Till the sorrows that sadden the care-clouded day Find the smiles ever beaming and vanish away. V. A Song of Green Valleys! O, joys that they bring Where the breeze whispers love in the love-days of spring, And the songs of the thrush from the love gardens float With the music that spills from the mocking-bird's throat! VI. A Song of Green Valleys! O, valleys that spread From the croon of the babe to the dirge of the dead, Beyond the long journey we leave you,--but then, God grant we shall meet you and have you again! Ate Boys Himself. He was a four year old Oklahoma Fountleroy, in knee pants, and with golden curls that would make an angel envious. His face still wore the divine beauty of the cradle, and his large, luminous eyes reflected an innocence unspotted of the world.