One father was complaining in the presence of another father of the fact that his son was costing him so much. He had to have money for clothes, books, carfare, lunch, etc. It was a burden.
The other father remarked, "My son does not cost me a dollar. I wish I could spend something on him."
"Why doesn't your son cost you?"
"Because," replied the second father, "we lost him a few months ago."

There are little eyes upon you,
and they're watching night and day;
There are little ears that quickly
take in everything you say;
There are little hands all eager
to do everything you do.
And a little boy who's dreaming
of the day he'll be like you.
You're the little fellow's idol,
you're the wisest of the wise;
In his little mind about you
no suspicions ever rise;
He believes in you devoutly,
holds that all you say and do
He will say and do in your way
when he's grown up just like you.
There's a wide-eyed little fellow
who believes you're always right,
And his ears are always open,
and he watches day and night.
You are setting an example
every day in all you do
For the little boy who's waiting
to grow up to be like you.
--Leslie Hale

This is what a grandchild does: brushes off the years;
Polishes a grandpa's smiles; banishes his fears;
Lightens up his step a bit; brings him tasks to do;
Teaches him to play once more games which once he knew;
Leads him to the toy shops; in his world of men;
Sends him on his daily round young at heart again.
Grandfolks have no time to think they are getting old.
They must learn anew the rhymes and the tales they told;
They must plan for circus time; wander 'round the zoo,
Call the animals by name, as they used to do.
They've no voice for aches and pains. Young at heart are they.
Eastertide is theirs once more, and the Christmas Day.
This is what a grandchild does: long lost joys restores;
Gives age back the birds and flowers and the out-of-doors;
Pleasures lost and long forgot; songs he used to sing;
Princes in the golden towers; butterflies a-wing;
Every charm that childhood bears in its joyous train,
For a third time down the years--all is ours again!
--Edgar A. Guest

He's not my boy,
but when his hand
Is held in mine I understand
The problems that he has to face;
I glimpse his goal in life's long race,
And then a thrill akin to joy
Sweeps over me--
He IS my boy.

He's not my boy, he has no dad;
He's just a lonely, little lad
Who'll have to battle all the way.
And so, in trust, if he will lay
His hand in mine, I'll count it joy
To help that lad--
I call my boy.