I stood in front of the great Krupp gun at the World’s Fair, and as the soldier in charge told me that one discharge cost one thousand dollars, and it could send a shell sixteen miles and pierce iron plated ships, its lips seemed loaded with death and it spoke of war and bloodshed and hate.

A little later I entered the Hall of Fine Arts and looked upon that impressive picture entitled, “Breaking Home Ties.”  The lad is about to go out from the roof that has sheltered him from babyhood, to be his own guide in the big wide world.  His mother holds his hand as she looks love into his eyes, and gives him her warnings and blessing; the father, with his boy’s valise in his hand, has turned away with a lump in his throat, while even the dog seems to be joining in the loving farewell.

Turning away from that picture, the thought came:  Ah! that means more than Krupp guns.  It means the coming of a day when love shall rule and war shall cease, when reason and righteousness shall be the arbitrators for differences between nations, when owls and bats will nest in the portholes of battleships, and each nation will vie with the other in warring against the kingdoms of want and wickedness.

When a man requested Bishop McIntyre to preach his wife’s funeral sermon, and told him of her many beautiful traits, Bishop McIntyre said:  “Brother, did you ever tell her all these sweet things before she died?”

Just here Sam Jones would say:  “Husbands, go home and kiss your wives.  Tell them they are the dearest, sweetest things on the earth; you may have to stretch the truth a little, but say it anyway.”

A few years ago, just before the Christmas holidays, I wrote my daughter, saying:  “I wish you would find out from your mother what she would like for a Christmas gift.  However, don’t tell her I wrote you to do this.  Also suggest something for the grandchildren that I may bring each some little remembrance that will please them.”  I closed by saying: 

  “The sands of my life are growing less and less,
    Soon I’ll reach the end of my years,
  Then you’ll lay me away with tenderness
    And pay me the tribute of tears.

  “Don’t carve on my tomb any word of fame,
    Nor a wheel with its missing spokes,
  Simply let the marble tell my name,
    Then add, ‘He was good to his folks.’”

Boys and girls, don’t speak back to mother.  You love her and don’t mean to offend, but it hurts her.  She was patient with you in your infancy; be patient with her in her old age.  From her birth she has been your loyal, loving slave.  She will go away and leave you after a little while, and oh! how you will miss her when she’s gone.  Deal gently with her now; speak kindly to her and when she’s gone memories of your love and kindness to mother will come to you like sweet perfume from wooded blossoms.

Young lady graduate of high school or college, do you realize what your father has done for you, and the sacrifices he has made that you might have what he has never had—­a diploma?  Go, put your fair tender cheek against the weather-beaten face of your father, print with rosy lips a kiss of gratitude upon his furrowed brow, and tell him you appreciate all he has done for you.