| If you can take your dreams into the classroom, |
| And always make them part of each day's work— |
| If you can face the countless petty problems |
| Nor turn from them nor ever try to shirk— |
| If you can live so that the child you work with |
| Deep in his heart knows you to be a man— |
| If you can take "I can't" from out his language |
| And put in place a vigorous "I can"— |
|
| |
| If you can take Love with you to the classroom, |
| And yet on Firmness never shut the door— |
| If you can teach a child the love of Nature |
| So that he helps himself to all her store— |
| If you can teach him life is what we make it, |
| That he himself can be his only bar— |
| If you can tell him something of the heavens, |
| Or something of the wonder of a star— |
| |
| If you, with simple bits of truth and honor, |
| His better self occasionally reach— |
| And yet not overdo nor have him dub you |
| As one who is inclined to ever preach— |
| If you impart to him a bit of liking |
| For all the wondrous things we find in print— |
| Yet have him understand that to be happy, |
| Play, exercise, fresh air he must not stint— |
| |
| If you can give of all the best that's in you, |
| And in the giving always happy be— |
| If you can find the good that's hidden somewhere |
| Deep in the heart of every child you see— |
| If you can do these things and all the others |
| That teachers everywhere do every day— |
| You're in the work that you were surely meant for; |
| Take hold of it! Know it's your place and stay! |
| |
| R.J. Gale. |
| There were ninety and nine |
| Of a flock, sleek and fine |
| In a sheltering cote in the vale; |
| But a lamb was away, |
| On the mountain astray, |
| Unprotected within the safe pale. |
| |
| Then the sleet and the rain |
| On the mountain and plain, |
| And the wind fiercely blowing a gale, |
| And the night's growing dark, |
| And the wolf's hungry bark |
| Stir the soul of the shepherd so hale. |
| |
| And he says, "Hireling, go; |
| For a lamb's in the snow |
| And exposed to the wild hungry beast; |
| 'Tis no time to keep seat, |
| Nor to rest weary feet, |
| Nor to sit at a bounteous feast." |
| |
| Then the hireling replied, |
| "Here you have at your side |
| All your flock save this one little sheep. |
| Are the ninety and nine, |
| All so safe and so fine, |
| Not enough for the shepherd to keep?" |
| |
| Then the shepherd replied, |
| "Ah! this lamb from my side |
| Presses near, very near, to my heart. |
| Not its value in pay |
| Makes me urge in this way, |
| But the longings and achings of heart." |
| |
| "Let me wait till the day, |
| O good shepherd, I pray; |
| For I shudder to go in the dark |
| On the mountain so high |
| And its precipice nigh |
| 'Mong the wolves with their frightening bark." |
|
| |
| Then the shepherd said, "No; |
| Surely some one must go |
| Who can rescue my lamb from the cold, |
| From the wolf's hungry maw |
| And the lion's fierce paw |
| And restore it again to the fold." |
| |
| Then the shepherd goes out |
| With his cloak girt about |
| And his rod and his staff in his hand. |
| What cares he for the cold |
| If his sheep to the fold |
| He can bring from the dark mountain land? |
| |
| You can hear his clear voice |
| As the mountains rejoice, |
| "Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!" |
| Up the hillside so steep, |
| Into caverns so deep, |
| "Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!" |
| |
| Now he hears its weak "baa," |
| And he answers it, "Ah! |
| Sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep, sheepy sheep!" |
| Then its answering bleat |
| Hurries on his glad feet, |
| And his arms gather up his lost sheep. |
| |
| Wet and cold on his breast |
| The lost lamb found its rest |
| As he bore it adown to the fold. |
| And the ninety and nine |
| Bleat for joy down the line, |
| That it's safe from the wolf and the cold. |
| |
| Then he said to his friends, |
| "Now let joy make amends |
| For the steeps and the deeps I have crossed— |
| For the pelting of sleet |
| And my sore, weary feet, |
| For I've found the dear lamb that was lost." |
| |
| Let the hirelings upbraid |
| For the nights that He stayed |
| On the mountains so rugged and high. |
| Surely never a jeer |
| From my lips shall one hear, |
| For—that poor lonely lambkin—was—I. |
| |
| While the eons shall roll |
| O'er my glad ransomed soul |
| I will praise the Good Shepherd above, |
| For a place on His breast, |
| For its comfort and rest, |
| For His wonderful, wonderful love. |
| |
| D. N. Howe. |
| If you have a friend worth loving, |
| Love him. Yes, and let him know |
| That you love him ere life's evening |
| Tinge his brow with sunset glow; |
| Why should good words ne'er be said |
| Of a friend—till he is dead? |
| |
| If you hear a song that thrills you, |
| Sung by any child of song, |
| Praise it. Do not let the singer |
| Wait deserved praises long; |
| Why should one that thrills your heart |
| Lack that joy it may impart? |
| |
| If you hear a prayer that moves you |
| By its humble pleading tone, |
| Join it. Do not let the seeker |
| Bow before his God alone; |
| Why should not your brother share |
| The strength of "two or three" in prayer? |
|
| |
| If you see the hot tears falling |
| From a loving brother's eyes, |
| Share them, and by sharing, |
| Own your kinship with the skies; |
| Why should anyone be glad, |
| When his brother's heart is sad? |
| |
| If a silver laugh goes rippling |
| Through the sunshine on his face, |
| Share it. 'Tis the wise man's saying, |
| For both grief and joy a place; |
| There's health and goodness in the mirth |
| In which an honest laugh has birth. |
| |
| If your work is made more easy |
| By a friendly helping hand, |
| Say so. Speak out brave and truly, |
| Ere the darkness veil the land. |
| Should a brother workman dear |
| Falter for a word of cheer? |
| |
| Scatter thus your seed of kindness, |
| All enriching as you go— |
| Leave them, trust the Harvest-Giver; |
| He will make each seed to grow. |
| So, until its happy end, |
| Your life shall never lack a friend. |