I Have To Live With Myself And

He Started To Sing As He Tackled The Thing. That Couldn't Be Done, And He Did It.

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.

Away From The Tumult Of Motor And Mill I Want To Be Care-free; I Want To Be Still! I'm Weary Of Doing Things; Weary Of Words I Want To Be One With The Blossoms And Birds.

Every Thought And Every Act Were To Keep This Home In Tact.