'Tis only a half truth the poet has sung

      Of the "house by the side of the way";

      Our Master had neither a house nor a home,

      But He walked with the crowd day by day.

      And I think, when I read of the poet's desire,

      That a house by the road would be good;

      But service is found in its tenderest form

      When we walk with the crowd in the road.

      So I say, let me walk with the men in the road,

      Let me seek out the burdens that crush,

      Let me speak a kind word of good cheer to the weak

      Who are falling behind in the rush.

      There are wounds to be healed, there are breaks we must mend,

      There's a cup of cold water to give;

      And the man in the road by the side of his friend

      Is the man who has learned to live.

      Then tell me no more of the house by the road.

      There is only one place I can live—

      It's there with the men who are toiling along,

      Who are needing the cheer I can give.

      It is pleasant to live in the house by the way

      And be a friend, as the poet has said;

      But the Master is bidding us, "Bear ye their load,

      For your rest waiteth yonder ahead."

      I could not remain in the house by the road

      And watch as the toilers go on,

      Their faces beclouded with pain and with sin,

      So burdened, their strength nearly gone.

      I'll go to their side, I'll speak in good cheer,

      I'll help them to carry their load;

      And I'll smile at the man in the house by the way,

      As I walk with the crowd in the road.

      Out there in the road that goes by the house,

      Where the poet is singing his song,

      I'll walk and I'll work midst the heat of the day,

      And I'll help falling brothers along—

      Too busy to live in the house by the way,

      Too happy for such an abode.

      And my heart sings its praise to the Master of all,

      Who is helping me serve in the road.

      Could we but draw back the curtains

      That surround each other's lives,

      See the naked heart and spirit,

      Know what spur the action gives,

      Often we should find it better,

      Purer than we judged we should,

      We should love each other better,

      If we only understood.

      Could we judge all deeds by motives,

      See the good and bad within,

      Often we should love the sinner

      All the while we loathe the sin;

      Could we know the powers working

      To o'erthrow integrity,

      We should judge each other's errors

      With more patient charity.

      If we knew the cares and trials,

      Knew the effort all in vain,

      And the bitter disappointment,

      Understood the loss and gain—

      Would the grim, eternal roughness

      Seem—I wonder—just the same?

      Should we help where now we hinder,

      Should we pity where we blame?

      Ah! we judge each other harshly,

      Knowing not life's hidden force;

      Knowing not the fount of action

      Is less turbid at its source;

      Seeing not amid the evil

      All the golden grains of good;

      Oh! we'd love each other better,

      If we only understood.

      She sat on the sliding cushion,

      The dear, wee woman of four;

      Her feet, in their shiny slippers,

      Hung dangling over the floor.

      She meant to be good; she had promised,

      And so, with her big, brown eyes,

      She stared at the meeting-house windows

      And counted the crawling flies.

      She looked far up at the preacher,

      But she thought of the honey bees

      Droning away at the blossoms

      That whitened the cherry trees.

      She thought of a broken basket,

      Where, curled in a dusky heap,

      Three sleek, round puppies, with fringy ears

      Lay snuggled and fast asleep.

      Such soft warm bodies to cuddle,

      Such queer little hearts to beat,

      Such swift, round tongues to kiss,

      Such sprawling, cushiony feet;

      She could feel in her clasping fingers

      The touch of a satiny skin

      And a cold wet nose exploring

      The dimples under her chin.

      Then a sudden ripple of laughter

      Ran over the parted lips

      So quick that she could not catch it

      With her rosy finger-tips.

      The people whispered, "Bless the child,"

      As each one waked from a nap,

      But the dear, wee woman hid her face

      For shame in her mother's lap.

      It was an old, old, old, old lady,

      And a boy that was half past three;

      And the way that they played together

      Was beautiful to see.

      She couldn't