Boys, are you poor?  Columbus was a weaver; Arkright was a barber; Esop, a slave; Bloomfield, a shoemaker; Lincoln, a rail-splitter; Garfield tramped a toe-path with no company but an honest mule; and Franklin, whose name will never die while lightning blazes through the clouds, went from the humble position of a printer’s devil to that height where he looked down upon other men.  If you would win in the battle of life, take the right side of life and build a righteous character.  The saddest scene on the streets at night is the young man, whose clothes are finest in quality and fittest in fashion, but whose principles sadly need “patching.”  I dare say there are young men before me now who would not go into refined company indecently dressed for any consideration, but who will rush into the presence of their God before they sleep with a dozen oaths upon their lips.  Will Carleton puts it this way: 

  “Boys flying kites, haul in their white plumed birds;
  You can’t do that when flying words;
  Thoughts unexpressed, may sometimes fall back dead,
  But God Himself can’t kill them when they’re said.”

Will Carleton puts it in poetry, let’s have it in prose.  Boys, pay more attention to your manners than to your moustache; keep your conduct as neat as your neck-tie, polish your language as well as your boots; remember, moustache grows grey, clothes get seedy, and boots wear out, but honor, virtue and integrity will be as bright and fresh when you totter with old age as when your mother first looked love into your eyes.

Little Lucy Rome was taken up for vagrancy in a great city.  When brought before the court an austere judge said:  “Who claims this child?”

A boy arose and walking down near the Judge, said:  “Please, sir; I do.  She’s my sister; we are orphans, but I can take care of her if you’ll let her go.”

“Who are you?” asked the Judge.

“I’m Jimmy Rome, and I have been taking care of my sister; but two weeks ago the man for whom I worked died and while I was out looking for another place, Lucy begged some bread and they took her up.  But now I’ve a good place to work, Judge, and I’m going to put little sister in school.  Please let me have her, sir.”

The Judge said:  “Stand aside.  Officer, take the child to the children’s home.”

The boy with tears streaming down his cheeks, as he heard his sister sobbing, said:  “Judge, please don’t take her from me.”

The Judge, moved by the pleading of the brother, said:  “Well, my boy, if you can find some reliable person to go your security you may have her.”

“Judge, I don’t know anyone to give you; my good friend is dead, but I told you the truth.  I don’t drink, nor smoke nor swear oaths; I try to be a good boy; I work hard, but I can’t give you any security.  Judge, will you please let me kiss my little sister before you take her from me?”

With this the boy put his arms about his weeping sister and printed, as he thought, the last kiss upon her cheek.  The Judge, with a lump in his throat, said:  “Take her, my boy; I’ll go your security.  I’ll give Lucy to the care of such a brother.”