Treading the Narrow Way Part 3

The Dog.

Of all the beasts beneath the sun There is no other, not a one, That clings to man in sweet and bitter As faithful as the canine critter.

When fortune smiles upon its crest And all your toil is richly blest The loyal dog is near at hand For slightest duty or command.

When poverty comes stalking in And you have lost your precious tin, The good old dog is just the same In dire distress or glittering fame.

In tattered rags or spick and span He has a truer heart than man, And when you meet most keen defeat His sympathy is there to greet.

When you are old and had your day, With feeble limbs and head of gray, And angels come to take you home, The good old dog is last to roam.

He'll watch beneath the stars at night Beside your grave a sadful sight, And wait and wait for many a day, When faded flowers have blown away.

A dog's great love is most sublime, It lingers near the word divine, And intertwines from him above, For dog turned around is G.o.d and love.

The Booze.

Oh the ones who drink the booze, You can tell it by their flues, The torrid heat within flames up the nose.

At first they're moderate drinkers, And become the same as thinkers, And what a sight for pity ere the close.

Chorus.

The booze, the booze, Any way you choose, No matter how you figure it you lose.

How many homes that suffer, When they shelter such a duffer, Whose presence causes heartaches, tears and blows, But you can always tell 'em If you can't then you can smell 'em, But if all the signs should fail you there's the nose.

If you only take a drop You know you'll never stop, Don't you realize that dynamite explodes, Better take an inventory, Before you're blown, no not to glory, But to where they ignite quickly, Jimmy Rhodes.

What's the matter with your clothes, Or do you for artists pose, Don't you ever meditate or think There's enough loam in your hair To rob an acre bare, Take an invoice before another drink.

Stop, my friend, don't be a slave, Do not fill a drunkard's grave, Be a man from birth until close, Come to him, the Galilean, He will make your future clean, He's the one to take the add from off your nose.

What's the Difference?

It matters not, so some folks say, Where rests the form when 'neath the clay.

There is no choice when the heart is still, Some always say and always will.

This may be true when we're forgot, And aught remains to mark the spot, But a silent stone that stands all time, With letters cold to tell mankind.

Some may not care where rest their bones, In foreign lands or near their homes, Where tender hearts can shed the tear And bathe the roses on the bier.

I'd rather rest 'neath shady trees, That beautify and kiss the breeze With velvet gra.s.s spread over the plot, With lilies and forget-me-not.

The Steering Wheel.

'Twas a party blithe and gay, On a joy ride as they say, Gliding many miles away from home.

Midnight long was by They were coming in on high When suddenly there was an awful moan.

The steering wheel went wrong, the papers said, One was badly injured, three were dead.

The same old story neatly woven in a tale, The sadness of the scene behind the vale, And not a line or word to make you think, What had put the wheel upon the blink.

The verdict of jury, so they say, Said the steering wheel was loose and had too much play; But by chance some people looking around, Some real and newer evidence was found, 'Tis evidence you find and seldom fail If you let the ribbon bottle tell the tale.

So in the name of justice, as I feel, Why not exonerate the wheel.

Such High Taxes, Gee-Whilaker.

Meadow larks, as you have undoubtedly noticed, warble many different songs. They sound like this to me: One says, "Here is your homesick girl." Another, "Light the light, it is gone down." Another, "Here is your English preacher." Another, "The smeeking smock bird," and others, from which the following poem is written, say, "Such high taxes, Gee-whilaker."

As I stood in the yard of our high taxed home, And filled my lungs with pure ozone, My eye went wandering far and nigh, And I saw a meadow lark flitting by.

He flew to a post for a moment's rest, And gazed a while both east and west, And then soared on, going higher and higher, Till he perched way up on the court house spire.

From a bird's eye view of quaint renown, He sized up the modern Julesburg town, The stand pipe built on the court house square, Is an old eye sore with a record rare.

The power house hid from the pa.s.ser by Must been for economy, heat or pie?

The city sewer, electric lights, Cement side-walks and high school sites, Was picturesque and nice to heed, But sad for the one that held the deed.

He raised his head as he ceased to note, And out from the depths of his golden throat His voice did peal as he said with a whirr, Such high taxes, Gee-whilaker.

To the Mrs.

I am going to take a kiss, And I know it's not a miss, But before I miss my kisses, I will take them from the Mrs.

Kisses from the dear old Mrs.

Are the sweetest kind of kisses.

But if the Misses kisses, Then there will be kisses Mrs.

Just as long as Mrs. kisses, There's no trouble with the Misses But let the Misses kisses And something's doing Misses Mrs.

Don't Procrastinate.

Don't wait till tomorrow, For joy or sorrow, And miss the golden today.

For every minute, Your heart's not in it, There's something slipping away.

'Twas Jesus who said, 'Ere his spirit fled, On the cross at Calvary, That he who had hope, Need never grope, For the better things to be.

So don't never worry, And fret and flurry, For things that's not for you, But hammer away, At life's forge today, For things that are good and true.

Sister Mary.