The Business Man. Here is to the business man, Who does the very best he can, And pays to each their honest debt, And don’t forget it makes him sweat. He labors from the morn till night, With brain and muscle in the fight, To keep his head above the stream, When finances are not serene. He’s to the one you always go, When life has pained you with a woe, You know his purse is always free, To lessen grief or misery. You toss on him most carelessly, The gratis job of town trustee, And then you pass around the word, He’s just the man for the school board. He helps to school your girls and boys, He shares with you your pains and joys, He helps to pay the preacher’s bill, And aids the churches with good will. He has to pay his bills when due, But if he asks the same of you, You think your credit’s met his fears, And let it run along for years. You let him long and look and look, At your account upon the book, And you’ll admit if you are frank, He pays your interest at the bank. If he would say and tell you true, When your account has long been due, That ten per cent was charged to you, You’d swear until the air was blue. If he helps you, then why not him, And don’t keep sending off your tin, But give it to your home merchants, And keep the gloss from off their pants.
Falling Snow. There’s something in the falling snow, That brings back years of long ago, That makes you think of younger days, Behind a span of gallant bays. The frosty air, the rosy dames, The secrets and the loving names, Of days gone by long years ago, Comes back today with falling snow. The laughter pealed o’er rocks and trees, The songs re-echoed with the breeze, Of merry rides so bright and gay, Are chasing thru my mind today. The biting air with keen delight, Puts crispness in the appetite, And mother’s pies of golden hue, Soon faded like the morning dew. And how I wish I could today, Turn back the years the youthful way, And drive the bays and see them go, And blush with youth midst falling snow.

SALLIE’S LOYALTY.

That’s Sallie over there in that potato patch. She has been endeavoring to tease from mother earth enough tubers to supply the family through a long winter. Nature in this and many other instances has been unkind. The rain waited too long and the one supply of food that fills so large a place are small as marbles, nevertheless this dear soul laboriously gathered them and is carrying them, pail at a time, and storing them away for a long, cold winter. Though the tubers are small and puny, she has a way of cooking them with such marked success that they would tickle the palate of a king and he’d be passing his plate the second time.

Sal does the housework, the buying of supplies, cares for the chickens, plants the garden, does the sewing, picks up the paint brush when necessary, and does about everything that anyone can do. She is past fifty years of age, most of them hard and bitter years. They have not been the kind of years where the goal has been worth the trials and bitterness. The streaks of silver are beginning to show in her dark hair, she is small in physique, clean limbed, lithe, resourceful, determined, and intelligent. Her schooling in the practical side of life is an attainment any one should be proud of. She is one of the most wiry and courageous women that has ever lived such a grand and noble life and kept the sad, dreary and lonely part locked up in her unselfish heart.

Behold her as she is, one of God’s purest gifts! Her life is clean, wholesome and grand and of such a sweetness and beauty that mocks to scorn any imitation of the artist. For eight long years she has cared uncomplainingly for the aged, widowed mother as her almost sole benefactor of aid and cheer in the home. She has sacrificed, schemed, planned, worked, and struggled in a way that is worthy of our greatest financiers, diplomats, or statesmen. She has fought within her own heart far greater battles and carried away the victory to a more deserving reward than many a soldier on the battlefield. She has denied herself in order that she might give the fullest measure of devotion to a dear old mother who is slipping slowly, slowly to that great home of rest and comfort.

God bless you, Sallie, in your old age, when the silver streaks no longer glisten in your hair and it is all turned to the whiteness and purity of snow; when your poor, tired aching limbs from their long years of toil no longer yield to quick response, when time chisels its deep furrows in your brow and your keen eye loses its lustre and grows dim. I hope God will reward you with the choicest gifts of his kingdom, and when the final summons is made and you stand in the open doorway of his love, bathed in the purity of the sparkling dew in the evening time of life, may the sweetness of your character come wafting gently in the fulness of its beauty and dwell amidst all that is holy, sweet and sacred.

Dearest Sal, you’re growing old, But there never can be told, The great jewels you possess, In your life of righteousness. I would love you just the same, Had you reached the highest fame, For you have a heart so true, There would be no change in you. You have done all duties well, Better than my tongue can tell, I would love to ease your way, And turn your winters back to May. I have but one life to live, But for you I’d freely give, I’d go down that lonesome valley, If ’twould help you, dear old Sallie.