Volume 1 — POEMS OF GOOD-FELLOWSHIP.

Commend me to the friend that comes When I am sad and lone, And makes the anguish of my heart The suffering of his own; Who coldly shuns the glittering throng At pleasure's gay levee, And comes to gild a somber hour And give his heart to me. He hears me count my sorrows o'er, And when the task is done He freely gives me all I ask— A sigh for every one. He cannot wear a smiling face When mine is touched with gloom, But, like the violet, seeks to cheer The midnight with perfume. Commend me to that generous heart Which, like the pine on high, Uplifts the same unvarying brow To every change of sky; Whose friendship does not fade away When wintry tempests blow, But, like the winter's icy crown, Looks greener through the snow. He flies not with the flitting stork That seeks a southern sky, But lingers where the wounded bird Hath laid him down to die. Oh, such a friend! He is in truth, Whate'er his lot may be, A rainbow on the storm of life, An anchor on its sea. Answers.

If you see a tall fellow ahead of a crowd, A leader of men, marching fearless and proud, And you know of a tale whose mere telling aloud Would cause his proud head to in anguish be bowed, It's a pretty good plan to forget it. If you know of a skeleton hidden away In a closet, and guarded, and kept from the day In the dark; and whose showing, whose sudden display, Would cause grief and sorrow and lifelong dismay, It's a pretty good plan to forget it. If you know of a thing that will darken the joy Of a man or a woman, a girl or a boy, That will wipe out a smile or the least way annoy A fellow, or cause any gladness to cloy, It's a pretty good plan to forget it. Answers.

When a fellow's kind of wobbly and uncertain on his feet, And has to work like sixty for to get both ends to meet— When he's not of much account and has to take what he can get— The people don't come flockin' to be friends of his, you bet! They don't come sayin', "Old chap, I'm the only friend you've got," And "Remember that we're brothers," and that kind of tommyrot. No, indeed! And they don't get jealous of you when friends are what you need. If a fellow's kind of lonesome and would like a friend or two Just to come around and jolly him when things are lookin' blue; If the shirt that he's wearin' is the only one he's got, And he never showed the public that he's really on the spot, They don't come crowdin' round him, nor stick out their hands and say, "We're your friends, old man; we love you—we've the same blood anyway"— No, indeed! But they watch to give the boot to you when friends are what you need. When things have got to comin' as a fellow wants 'em to, When his pockets are all bulgin' and his clo's are fine and new; When he steps out proud and lordly and ain't got a thing to fear, There's a sudden change comes over folks that used to wink and sneer. They come runnin' then to tell you that they're all your friends, and say That they've always been dead anxious for to help you out some way— Yes, indeed! Friends are always mighty plentiful when friends ain't what you need. Tit-Bits.

Oh, never sink 'neath Fortune's frown, But brave her with a shout of cheer, And front her fairly—face her down— She's only stern to those who fear! Here's "Better luck another year!" Another year! Aye, better luck another year! We'll have her smile instead of sneer— A thousand smiles for every tear, With home made glad and goodly cheer, And better luck another year— Another year! The damsel Fortune still denies The plea that yet delights her ear; 'Tis but our manhood that she tries— She's coy to those who doubt and fear— She'll grant the suit another year! Another year! Here's "Better luck another year!" She now denies the golden prize; But, spite of frown and scorn and sneer, Be firm, and we will win and wear, With home made glad and goodly cheer, In better luck another year! Another year! Another year!

W'en you see a man in wo, Walk right up and say "hullo!" Say "hullo," an' "how d'ye do?" "How's the world a-usin' you?" Slap the fellow on his back, Bring yer han' down with a whack; Waltz right up, an' don't go slow, Grin an' shake an' say "hullo!" Is he clothed in rags? Oh, sho! Walk right up an' say "hullo!" Rags is but a cotton roll Jest for wrappin' up a soul; An' a soul is worth a true Hale an' hearty "how d'ye do?" Don't wait for the crowd to go; Walk right up an' say "hullo!" W'en big vessels meet, they say, They saloot an' sail away. Jest the same are you an' me, Lonesome ships upon a sea; Each one sailing his own jog For a port beyond the fog. Let yer speakin'-trumpet blow, Lift yer horn' an' cry "hullo!" Say "hullo," an' "how d'ye do?" Other folks are good as you. W'en ye leave yer house of clay, Wanderin' in the Far-Away, W'en you travel through the strange Country t'other side the range, Then the souls you've cheered will know Who ye be, an' say "hullo!"

What though the homespun suit he wears, Best suited to the sons of toil— What though on coarsest food he fares, And tends the loom, or tills the soil— What though no gold-leaf gilds the tongue, Devoted to congenial chat— If right prevails, and not the wrong, The man is not the worse for that. What though within his humble cot No costly ornament is seen— What though his wife possesses not Her satin gowns of black and green— What though the merry household band Half naked fly to ball and bat— If Conscience guides the heart and hand, The man is none the worse for that. True worth is not a thing of dress— Of splendor, wealth, or classic lore; Would that these trappings we loved less, And clung to honest worth the more! Though pride may spurn the toiling crowd, The faded garb, the napless hat, Yet God and Nature cry aloud— The man is none the worse for that.

His gain is loss; for he that wrongs his friend Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about A silent court of justice in his breast, Himself a judge and jury, and himself The prisoner at the bar, ever condemned.