There’s a money O’ the soul, my boy, ye’ll find in after years,
  Its pennies are the sweat drops an’ its dollars are the tears;
  An’ love is the redeemin’ gold that measures what they’re worth,
  An’ ye’ll git as much in Heaven as ye’ve given out on earth.

  Fer the record o’ yer doin’ — I believe the soul is planned
  With an automatic register t, tell jest how ye stand,
  An’ it won’t take any cipherin’ t’ show that fearful day,
  If ye’ve multiplied yer talents well, er thrown ’em all away.

  When yer feet are on the summit, an’ the wide horizon clears,
  An’ ye look back on yer pathway windin’ thro’ the vale o’ tears;
  When ye see how much ye’ve trespassed an’ how fur ye’ve gone astray,
  Ye’ll know the way o’ Providence ain’t apt t’ be your way.

  God knows as much as can be known, but I don’t think it’s true
  He knows of all the dangers in the path o’ me an’ you. 
  If I shet my eyes an’ hurl a stone that kills the King o’ Siam,
  The chances are that God’ll be as much surprised as I am.

  If ye pray with faith believin’, why, ye’ll certnly receive,
  But that God does what’s impossible is more than I’ll believe. 
  If it grieves Him when a sparrow falls, it’s sure as anything,
  He’d hev turned the arrow if He could, that broke the sparrow’s wing.

  Ye can read old Nature’s history thet’s writ in rocks an’ stones,
  Ye can see her throbbin’ vitals an’ her mighty rack o’ hones. 
  But the soul o’ her — the livin’ God, a little child may know
  No lens er rule o’ cipherin’ can ever hope t’ show.

  There’s a part o’ Cod’s creation very handy t’ yer view,
  Al’ the truth o’ life is in it an’ remember, Bill, it’s you. 
  An’ after all yer science ye must look up in yer mind,
  An’ learn its own astronomy the star o’ peace t’ find.

  There’s good old Aunt Samanthy Jane thet all her journey long
  Has led her heart to labour with a reveille of song. 
  Her folks hev robbed an’ left her but her faith in goodness grows,
  She hasn’t any larnin’, but I tell ye Bill, she knows!

  She’s hed her share o’ troubles; I remember well the day
  We took her t’ the poorhouse — she was singin’ all the way;
  Ye needn’t be afraid t’ come where stormy Jordan flows,
  If all the larnin’ ye can git has taught ye halfshe knows.’

I give this crude example of rustic philosophy, not because it has my endorsement — God knows I have ever felt it far beyond me — but because it is useful to those who may care to know the man who wrote it.  I give it the poor fame of these pages with keen regret that my friend is now long passed the praise or blame of this world.

Chapter 22