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There was a child who went forth every day; The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure,
The family usages, the language, the company, the furniture--the yearning
and swelling heart. |
Dr. Schweitzer, who was known
as the Jungle Doctor, used to give music recitals in order to raise money
to pay for the hospital he built in the African jungle. Someone decided
to include a story about him in a book of hero stories, and asked if he
would write a special message to go with it. This is what he wrote: "Tell the boys and girls that the truths they feel deep down in their hearts are the real truths. God's love speaks to us in our hearts and tries to work through us in the World. We must listen to this voice. We must listen to it as to a pure and distant melody that comes across the noise of the World's doing.s Some say, 'When we are grown up, we will listen. Now while we are young, we would rather think of other things.' But with the voice of Love, with which God speaks to us in the secret places of the heart, God speaks to us when we are young so that our youth may be really youth, and that we may become the children of God. Happy are those who listen." During a blistering hot day, a family was entertaining guests for dinner. When all were seated, the man of the house turned to his six-year-old son and asked him to say the blessing. "But daddy, I don't know what to say," he protested. "Oh, just say what you've heard me say," the mother chimed in. Obediently, he bowed his little head and said, "Oh, Lord, why did I invite these people here on a hot day like this!" |
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A young father was pushing a baby buggy down the street. He seemed to be unruffled by the bawling of the baby and softly said, "Easy, Albert! Control yourself! Keep calm!" The baby bawled more loudly. "Now, now, Albert, keep your temper!" the father went on. A mother, passing by, said, "I must congratulate you on your self-control. You surely know how to speak to a baby--calmly and gently!" She patted the crying baby on the head, and asked soothingly, "What's wrong, Albert?" "No, no!" exclaimed the father, "the baby's name is Johnny. I'm Albert!" |
Lost! A boy! Not kidnapped by bandits and hidden in a cave to weep and starve and raise a nation to frenzied searching. No, his father lost him. Too busy to sit with him at the fireside and answer his trivial questions during the years when Dad is the only great hero to a boy, he let go his hold. His mother lost him too. Engrossed in worthwhile programs, clubs with high aims, she let the babysitter hear his prayers and abdicated her place of influence. |
| My day-old child lay in my
arms And I held his pudgy hand; I whispered softly, "How I wish, That you could understand. I've oh so much to say to you. My newborn's little mouth was still "How I wish that I could speak, |
My music is the patter My art is crayon scribbling My literature comprises The kind of culture I acquire |
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