Oh, You'll Not Be Any Poorer If

I Have To Live With Myself And So, I Want To Be Fit For Myself To Know.

There's Nothing That Builds Up A Toil-weary Soul Like A Day On A Stream, Back On The Banks Of The Old Fishing Hole Where A Fellow Can Dream. There's Nothing So Good For A Man As To Flee From The City And Lie Full Length In The Shade Of A Whispering Tree And Gaze At The Sky. . . . . It Is Good For The World That Men Hunger To Go To The Banks Of A Stream, And Weary Of Sham And Of Pomp And Of Show They Have Somewhere To Dream. For This Life Would Be Dreary And Sordid And Base Did They Not Now And Then Seek Refreshment And Calm In God's Wide, Open Space And Come Back To Be Men.

I Take The Family Shopping Round. The Markets Of The World.

I Want To Be Able, As Days Go By, Always To Look Myself Straight In The Eye.

For Age Is Not Alone Of Time, Or We Should Never See Men Old And Bent At Forty And Men Young At Seventy-three.