Say good-bye to Sorrow,-- Put the rogue to flight; Pleasures come tomorrow With the blossoms bright. Say good-bye to Sorrow! When she pounds your door, Tell her there's the highway And to call no more! Caught on the Fly. The hired hand who needs no boss to keep him busy earns double wages. Money may buy bread and clothes, but every thing except happiness can be purchased on credit. The monument and the mausoleum both perish from the world; but the dreamer who created them lives forever in the hearts of his fellow-men, and fashions daily something of their lives. The Call of the Master. I. This the call of the Master, and this is the great Command: "Forward, march, to the shadows! Fare forth to the Slumber Land! There's the crown and the purple! And there is the smile and song, Past the ways of the weary, and over the hills of wrong!" II. Forth at call of the Master! Still forth for his perfect grace! Sweet the vision of valor, and fair is the loving face! Swift the cradle forgetting, and far from the sob between, March to reign of the rain-bow, and dreams of the years unseen! III. Rolls the sword in a circle! The whirl and the flash of fire, Burn the years like a cinder and claim for their monstrous hire! Croon of cradle, be silent! And down, thou curtain of doom! Weird as sobs of the midnight the dirge of the wailing tomb! IV. Brothers, step to the music! Still on with a shout and song! Flags above for the triumphs o'er struggles so lone and long! Croon of cradle and love-song! The ditty and dirge of strife, All are daughters of duty and call to the golden life! V. See, the purples of even! Lo, Love has a rosy hand! Hate fades dim in the distance and grief is a far-off land! Sweet, 'tis time for the slumber! With croon of the cradle-song, Rest we there in the Father's arms where the little ones belong! Dry your eyes, my love, and we Both shall laugh with rhapsody, Hand in hand through all the days And the world's peculiar ways! What to us unhappiness Of the sad heart's storm and stress? Joy shall hold our hands and twine Heart to heart through storm and shine! The Baby's Hand. In these days of loot and lucre When no chap can get enough, And the man that wins the praises Is the one that gets the stuff; When the fellow with a plenty Of the "long green" at command Is the one that knocks persimmons From the tall trees of the land,-- What for me shall such things matter? There's a glory more divine Than the jingle of the guinea with the baby's hand in mine!