Toil Is The Lot Of

There Is A Strength In The Even Of Very Sorry Men

Few Sons Are Equal To Their Fathers; Most Fall Short, All Too Few Surpass Them.

Men In Their Generations Are Like The Leaves Of The Trees. The Wind Blows And One Year's Leaves Are Scattered On The Ground; But The Trees Burst Into Bud And Put On Fresh Ones When The Spring Comes Round.

O Friends, Be Men; So Act That None May Feel Ashamed To Meet The Eyes Of Other Men. Think Each One Of This Children And His Wife, His Home, His Parents, Living Yet And Dead. For Them, The Absent Ones, I Supplicate, And Bid You Rally Here, And Scorn To Fly.

A Boy Without Mischief Is Like A Bowling Ball Without A Liquid Center.