"The tender words unspoken,
The letters never sent,
The long-forgotten messages,
The wealth of love unspent.
For these some hearts are breaking,
For these some loved ones wait;
So show them that you care for them,
Before it is too late."
There are books and photographs of those beloved, looked at first thing in the morning and last at night; and when the kit and all belongings are left in store when the battle is on, those precious photos are taken out and hidden next the heart, under the tunic.
There, too, is the Testament, placed by loving hands when the outfit was packed—perhaps the mother gave her own to her boy when he left; and there is a smudge mark yet on the cover, where a tear dropped, that she tried very hard not to let fall, but could not help it.
Many a boy valued that Testament, and after some of them were found, there lay in the pocket, with the pages glued together by the blood, and sometimes torn with a bullet mark, the gift of pious love.
Oh, how grand it is to have a life filled with precious values—the values that make us richer, and help to adorn us and cheer us and brighten us.
A little child on the seashore saw a bright spangle. Picking it up, she found it was attached to a gold thread, and drawing the thread, she found other spangles, which she wound round her neck and body, covering it with brightness. And as we go through life, it is very lovely to pick up the precious sparkling things filled with love value, and wind them around our hearts.
Dear girls and boys, have you anything of value in your lives—of a real worth while—real costly things?
Marbles and toys and air balloons, and wrist watches and spats and gorgeous neckties are all right; but you will need more if you are going to amount to anything, and I suggest you store up your kit bag with precious things of noble thoughts and full minds and sweet memories and useful deeds, for it is not what you have or how much you weigh that counts, but what you are and what you can do.
Did you ever hear people discussing somebody, and did you overhear some one say, "Oh, there's nothing in him." There may be feet in his boots, and arms in his coat sleeves and legs in his pants, and a head in his hat, but his real self is empty—"To Let" is seen written over his face.
Be something in this toiling age
Of busy hands and feet.
A light upon some darkened page,
A shelter from the heat.
Be found upon the workmen's roll,
Go sow or plant or plough.
Bend to the task with willing soul.
Be something, somewhere, now.