The Making of Friends

Image by Alexas_Fotos — Pixabay

THE MAKING OF FRIENDS
by Edgar A Guest

If nobody smiled and nobody cheered
and nobody helped us along;
if each, every minute, looked after himself
and good things all went to the strong;
if nobody cared just a little for you
and nobody thought about me,
and we stood all alone in the battle of life—
what a dreary old world it would be!

If there were no such thing as a flag in the sky
as a symbol of comradeship here;
if we lived as the animal live in the woods,
with nothing held sacred or dear
and selfishness ruled us from birth to the end
and never a neighbor had we,
and never we gave to another in need—
what a dreary old world it would be!

Oh, if we were rich as the richest on earth,
and strong as the strongest that lives,
yet never we knew the delight and the charm
of the smile which the other man gives;
if kindness were never a part of ourselves,
though we owned all the land we could see,
and friendship meant nothing at all to us here—
what a dreary old world it would be!

Life is sweet just because of the friends we have made
and the things which in common we share;
we want to live on not because of ourselves,
but because of the people who care.
It’s giving and doing for somebody else—
on that all life’s splendor depends—
and the joy of this world, when you’ve summed it all up,
is found in the making of friends.

From his book, Collected Verse of Edgar A Guest
© 1934 by The Reilly & Lee Company

Image from Pixabay

Results and Roses

In keeping with this morning’s word, I’ll share this verse from Edgar Guest:

Results and Roses

The man who wants a garden fair,
or small or very big,
with flowers growing here and there,
must bend his back and dig.

The things are mighty few on earth
that wishes can attain;
whate’er we want of any worth
we’ve got to work to gain.

It matters not what goal you seek,
its secret here reposes:
you’ve got to dig from week to week
to get results and roses.

From his book, A Heap O’ Livin’
© 1916 by the Reilly & Britton Company

Old Man Green

The Ragtag Daily Prompt word today is GREEN.

I posted this poem here almost seven years ago, but will do so again as a response to today’s prompt.

Old Man Green
by Edgar Guest

Old Man Green you’ve never heard of,
papers never used a word of
him or anything he did.
Seems as though his light was hid
day by day from mortal eyes,
wasn’t clever, great or wise;
just a carpenter who made
odds and ends and liked his trade.

Old Man Green lived over there
in that humble cottage, where
five plump babies came to bless
those small rooms with happiness
and as time went on they grew
just as rich men’s children do:
three smart boys and two fine girls
with the prettiest of curls.

Old Man Green from day to day
put up shelves to earn his pay,
took the little that he made
following faithfully his trade
and somehow his wife and he
managed it most carefully
and five children, neat and clean,
answered to the name of Green.

Old Man Green with saw and plane
little from the world could gain,
but with that small sum he earned
many things his children learned.
“Those Green boys,” the teachers said,
“Have the stuff to get ahead.
Finest girls we’ve ever seen,
little Kate and Mary Green.”

This is all there is to tell,
boys and girls are doing well;
each with courage and with grace
fills in life an honored place.
Old Man Green is dead and gone,
but his worth is shining on;
this his praise, if praise be needed,
As a father he succeeded.

From his book The Light of Faith
©1926 by the Reilly & Lee Co.

Creation

by Edgar Guest

Image from Pixabay

I never see a butterfly
or hear a singing bird,
but what in some strange manner I
am very deeply stirred.

Who first conceived the tender wings
on which it seeks the rose?
Has human thought such lovely things
to fashion and disclose?

O singing bird upon a tree!
Has ever human mind
contrived to solve the mystery
of how you were designed?

Man writes his loftiest thoughts in words,
and builds with brick and stone.
But dreams of butterflies and birds
belong to God alone.

From his book Collected Verse of Edgar A Guest
©1934 by the Reilly & Lee Company

Out Fishin’

I’m going to do a very simple word today: FISHER.

Twenty-odd years ago I joined a penpal club and got a penpal from the north of Holland, Douwe Visser. Underneath his signature he’d draw a swirly upside-down fish, because Visser means FISHER. And there’s plenty of fishing in the province of Friesland, right beside the North Sea.

It’s not hard at all to see the connection between the Dutch and English words. M-W tells me that our word FISH goes back before 1200, to the Old English word fisc, is akin to the Old High German word fisc. (Bearing in mind that the Germans pronounce their ‘F’ as we do our ‘V’.) This word likely crossed the English Channel with the Saxons. The Latin the word for fish is piscis.

Thinking of FISH brings me to one of Edgar Guest’s poems about the joys of fishing:

OUT FISHIN’

Image from Pixabay

A feller isn’t thinkin’ mean
out fishin’;
His thoughts are mostly good and clean
out fishin’.
He doesn’t knock his fellow men
or harbor any grudges then;
a feller’s at his finest when
out fishin’.

The rich are comrades to the poor
out fishin’;
all brothers of a common lure,
out fishin’.
the urchin with the pin and string
can chum with millionare and king;
vain pride is a forgotten thing
out fishin’.

A feller gets a chance to dream
out fishin’;
he learns the beauties of a stream
out fishin’;
And he can wash his soul in air
that isn’t foul with selfish care,
and relish plain and simple fare,
out fishin’.

A feller has no time for hate
out fishin’;
he isn’t eager to be great
out fishin’.
He isn’t thinkin’ thoughts of pelf,
of goods stacked high upon a shelf,
but he is always just himself
out fishin’.

A feller’s glad to be a friend
out fishin;
a helping hand he’ll gladly lend
out fishin’.
The brotherhood of rod and line
and sky and stream is always fine;
men come real close to God’s design
out fishin’.

A feller isn’t plotting schemes
out fishin’
he’s only busy with his dreams
out fishin;
His livery is a coat of tan,
his creed: to do the best he can.
A feller’s always mostly man
out fishin’.