Dear, tired hands, that carried their full share
Of earthly toil - and yet found time to bear
The cup of solace, or the brimming chalice
Of life's good cheer - without the dregs of malice -
Strong, gentle hands, that soothed as they caressed
And everyone they touched was truly blessed.

Dear, kindly eyes, that caught the Heaven's blue, -
And mixed with it the gray of twilight's hue;
Brave eyes - once keen - but always true and strong,
And able to distinguish right from wrong.
Love's eyes, that watched her children as they slept;
And all their lives a tireless vigil kept.
Clear eyes, that saw beyond this vale of tears,
And planned a mansion, of eternal years.

Dear, warm heart, that kept its proper place,
And yet had room - and room - of magic space
To house her loved ones - and yet had room to spare
For countless friends who found warm shelter there.
A heart attuned to every S.O.S. -
With quickened beat, to reach those in distress.
Brave, loyal heart that harbored no false pride -
Where only love and mercy could abide.

The precious hands lie quietly in sleep;
The lovely eyes no longer vigil keep.
The pulsing, vibrant heart at last is still, -
For the soul that quickened it has gone to fill
A glorious place in Heaven's own domain,
Where angel hosts sing "Welcome home again!"

I stood on a mountain-top last night,
And looked through a telescope at the light
Of the sun's bright rays on a crescent moon.
The heavens and earth were in perfect tune.
As I saw the myriad stars in place -
And the planets moving through infinite space,
Guided unerringly by the Hand
That fashioned this wonderful, beautiful land.

I stood in a garden, washed with dew,
And studied the flowers of every hue, -
Each tiny flower an upturned face,
Seeking - reflecting - His wondrous grace.

I visited temples of every creed,
And found that our Father was there indeed.
In the early Missions, now crumbling away
There is something within that cannot decay:
The spirit of Him who died on the cross,
Counting all else but God's kingdom dross.

I saw an old woman, bed-ridden with pain,
Who knows she will never stand up again;
But there was a glory in her worn face,
As she opened her Bible to that loved place:
"For God so loved... that he gave His son,
That who so believeth hath eternal life won."

I looked in the heart of a dear little child,
And found God's love, planted there, undefiled.
Then out of my heart came a song and a prayer.
"Oh, wonderful God, you are everywhere."

Three wooden crosses,
Erected on a hill, -
Weatherbeaten, etched with age,
Standing stark and still.

Indians who hated
White man's arrogance,
Fell upon three priests
In hapless circumstance. -
Knowing not the mission
Of these godly men.
Murdered them at sunset,
And galloped off again.

A caravan of white men
found the bodies there;
Dug for each a grave,
And buried them with care.

They made three wooden crosses,
And set them in this mound.
The nameless little graveyard
Became a hallowed ground.

Little wooden crosses
Stand in silhouette
Against a summer sky. -
And good folks can't forget

The symbol of the crosses -
That day on Calvary,
When our dear Lord and Savior
Died for you and me.

Las Cruces, or "The Crosses",
A city of mixed race,
Keeps faith with Christian martyrs
And remains a godly place.

"Believest thou in the Lord Jesus Christ?"
The true affirmative is the passport to Heaven.
Believest thou in Liberty?
The unrecanting "Yes" is the master key to
the golden gate that opens to Liberty Heights -
The loftiest - and loveliest place in all Heaven.
Only the brave and true may enter here.
"He that findeth his life shall lose it;
He that loseth his life for my sake shall find it."
Nathan Hale and all his shining company have
gone forth in their glowing prime -
to take an option on the garden spot of Heaven.
Only the worthy may join them.

--- We honor our departed heroes on Memorial Day.
God - Author of Liberty - honors them through all eternity.

With boastful pride we independents say,
"I'm free of debt; I owe not any man."
If that be true, we're desolate indeed -
Belonging to a shameful pauper clan.

We owe no one? I have a mounting debt,
That, in my span of years, I cannot pay
To those great, gallant souls who trod this earth,
And gave their wealth of life's best gold away.

For whom does the Bell toll? The lame and the halt -
The paralyzed children of men;
The twisted, distorted, the helpless of earth -
She helps them walk bravely again.

The Bell tolls the death-knell of Cancer before
His insidious work is begun, -
She sends forth a warning - and germs of disease
Fall in battle, completely outdone.

The Bell sounds a Victory note down the ranks:
A new triumph, A cure, Folks believe
In the Bell that tolls merrily, hopefully, true
The heart-lifting song of Bell Greve.

There will always be a Christmas in the hearts of little children -
And, since childhood is eternal, we are all but children grown,
Thrilling to the Manger story and the journey of the Wise Men,
Mindful that the God of stars is keeping watch above His own.

There will always be a Christmas - and, pray soon, the fruits of Christmas:
Peace on Earth - Good-will - and Freedom - and the dignity of man;
Laughter of all little children; faith and worship; joyous giving;
All that men have lived and died for since our Christmases began.

RESOLVED:

To write to someone in the Service each day;
To put all my gripings and groanings away.

To shell out the coupons in wholehearted glee
(Each coupon a thread in the Peace tapestry).
To move to the battle-front each night and day.
To use my best weapons - and then kneel and pray.
To exercise faith, and make it grow strong -
To carry a faltering comrade along.
To help heal the heartbreaks. For unfathomed joy
Adopt and restore at least one wounded boy.
To remember, though tyrants have their little day,
That Jesus, the crucified Christ, lives always.

"Of all sad words of tongue or pen
The saddest are these: 'It might have been'!"
Thus Whittier wrote of the farmer's lass
And the lordly judge who chanced to pass. -
But add these words of a later date;
"Too little - little - and too late!"
The needed succor at Bataan;
The present need - to lick Japan. -
The need of more tanks, shells, and guns -
To beat the everlasting Huns.
The need of understanding here
Of our boys' earth-hell - far and near. -
Oh, let us spare their anguished cry:
"Too little - and too late! We die."

When two great souls pass on from earthly sight,
The torch they carried does not flicker out -
But, carried Heavenward, gives greater light,
And casts a lovely glow earthward - and all about.
And then, besides, their flaming torch has lit
A thousand little candles, such as mine;
Thus we move forward - upward - bit by bit,
Until we catch and hold the spark divine.

In loving remembrance of Judge Jim and Aunt Mabel Telford,
Florence B. Taylor

Forest Lawn! The ancient, beauty-loving Greeks would weave a tale
Of how the goddess Hela had searched out the perfect place
On earth to keep all that is mortal as a special sanctuary
For the soul, 'til Mt. Olympus (Heaven) made new space.

The grass grows green in Forest Lawn - and every tree is evergreen. -
The world's best art is gathered here -
and far removed from strife;
Lovely churches, banked with flowers -
bathed in sunshine - filled with music,
Monument to beauty; symbol of eternal life.

Here is the month that sets hearts wooing, -
And now I set my kettle brewing
That soft ingredient called "mush" -
To greet my love at twilight's hush.
And who's my Valentine this year?
Who is most wanted? Who most dear?
'Tis she who bring the birds on wing;
'Tis lovely, vibrant, sparkling Spring.
The one I've loved in days of yore, -
I love you now as ne'er before.
Come quick, my sweet, without delay -
And take this plagued snow away. ---

Cells: Yeast and Brain
The yeast germ makes a lovely loaf
When it is fed good flour;
But when it feeds upon itself,
It flattens - and turns sour.

The mind that feeds on wholesome things
Expands to giant scale. -
The mind that feeds upon itself
Goes flat - and sour - and stale.

'Way back - in a funny book - there's an old saw
About a slow train going through Arkansas.
Well, at last that old train got switched to Ohio, -
And it creeps down to Saltsburg each week-end - oh, my, oh!
It picks up the By-Ways on Saturday eve,
And arrives - all steamed up - oh, would you believe? -
The following Wednesday - just around noon,
When the Press is all printed and wrapped - very soon
To go to the postoffice - for each subscriber.
Just think of the sagging of each moral fiber
Of every fond reader - expectant - to find
That the By-Ways - alas! - has been left far behind.
So now, to make sure that I send Easter greetings,
I send them right now.

Decoration Day meetings
Should have a brief word. I send a reply:
"I salute you today - and the Fourth of July!"
And just to make sure of prompt words of good cheer,
Here's advance "Merry Christmas" and a "Happy New Year"!

Red should mark initial letter -
Emblem color of Red Cross;
D for dollars given gladly.

Counting selfish gain but dross,
Ravaging the shot and shell fire
Over in the battle zone,
Send the Red Cross to our wounded;
Save their lives. We must atone.

The portals of Heaven stand open these days -
So steady - so terribly steady -
The march of young feet - in the mud-laden boots -
And the beat of brave hearts.
Lord, make ready
Your worthless mansions on Liberty Hill,
"With good hunting and fishing, (for zest).
And please give Harry V. Painter, dear Lord,
One of your biggest and best.
"He that loseth his life... shall find it again" -
In that Land where the blessed are,
Since he hurried away, with no thought for himself,
We are shipping his Silver Star. - Florence B. Taylor

School days, school days -
Dear old actin'-a-fool days;
Some readin' and writin' and 'rithmetic,
But mostly a study in how to look slick.
You were my queen in a formal - so;
I was your smoothest, jivenest beau
You wrote on my shirt-back, "You silly dodo"
When we were a couple-a kids -----

Hi-diddle-diddle,
The cat and the fiddle -
The cow jumped over the moon;
The wee hot-dog laughed to see such sport,
And shouted, "I'll be with you soon."
The young pig did squeal
And the calf did re-veal
That they had soared clear to the sky
In the clouds lambs had drifted, -
For the ceiling was lifted -
While mortals looked on with a sigh.

"He wants the world with a fence around it."
We say of one whose greed's immense.
Well, old Sir Greedy has his world,
Surrounded by a "picket" fence. ---

This letter must necessarily be brief -
And probably full of static,
Because my husband and I are dead
From working in the attic.

'Tis a beautiful world in the early morn,
When all verdure is washed with dew;
When all that is evil is fast asleep,
And the distant sun is new.

The birds, who follow their Maker's plan
go to bed when day is done,
And awake, full-throated with hymns of praise,
To herald the rising sun.

Ah, the world is lovely at 6 a.m.
When man-made schemes are asleep.
And the wee musicians of earth and sky
A wondrous vigil keep.

It is Christmas in the East; it is
Christmas in the West;
There's no telling which is lovelier -
no telling which is best.
For the magic spell of Christmas
is from earth a thing apart;
It's a little bit of Heaven come to
visit every heart.
With love and good-will to all,

Florence B. Taylor

"Happy New Year!" we shout to the man in the street;
"Happy New Year!" we sing to all friends that we meet. -
Happy New Year! As glib as a "Hi" or "Hello!" -
As transient as showers or a light winter's snow.
How deep is our wish? And how high is our goal?
How much can we share with a less lucky soul? -
Not gold - but the gift of a knowledge of God;

The dear ways of Jesus - the path that He trod;
Of an unselfish mother's endowment so rare, -
Of the jewels of sweat and a dad's silent prayer;
Of the gems handed us by a friend passing by. -
Of the talents God gave us to USE - MULTIPLY.
Oh, the wealth we possess! If we give with good cheer,
Then this may be truly a Happy New Year.

Unlike Shelley or Keats, I know nothing of odes,
Except that they're very commodious
In expressing deep thoughts - and my deep thought right now
Is this: That the Sun can be odious.
You remember the fable of the Wind and the Sun,
Arguing which was the stronger,
And the Sun picked a man with a big overcoat,
And said, "I'll bet he can longer
Hold out 'gainst your blistering, hurricane ways."
Sure enough - you know the answer.
And so 'tis in Texas this blistering day,
You would think we were dying of cancer.
Men swelter and sweat; women swoon on a couch,
While the children jump into a pool.
The petunias wilt, and even the bees
Are in search of a place to keep cool.
But what is the use of the fretting and fuss? -
Or even the prayerful petitioning?
The only solution (for humans, at least)
Is the new wonder - air conditioning.

When the Wise Men came to the manger crib,
With their choicest gifts for the Christchild there,
They foiled King Herod's wicked plan
To kill the babe proclaimed as heir
To a Kingdom. How could Herod know
Of a Kingdom not of this finite earth?
But the Wise Men knew - and used their wits
To save Child Jesus at His birth.

Our gifts of "gold and frankincense
And Myrrh" we bring with care,
But do we guard the Christ within?
And keep Him living there?
What price the gifts? What mockery,
If we in thought betray
Our Christ-child - Master - risen Lord,
Whose birthday is today!

You don't believe in miracles? Ah,
yes you do. You really must.
You see bright gardens flourish
where was once but desert dust.
Radio and television? They are
miracles for sure;
Atom-power as yet undreamed of -
in the hands of men mature -
Planes that break the sonic wall
are made by beings we call 'men'.
One whole grove is filled with music
from the throat of a tiny wren.

Love is life's great unseen miracle,
ennobling human hearts, -
Making angels out of devils,
mapping lives by Heaven's charts.
Of all wonders, seen or unseen, on
this wicked, wondrous earth
Is God's handiwork - through two
parents; 'tis the miracle of birth.
You believe in ageless miracles? Of
course. And I, for one,
Gaze in reverential wonder at our
tiny new grandson.

The highways of life are the roads to success -
Achievement - whatever the ultimate goal;
But the byways of life are the little side paths
Where we gather hyacinths for the soul.

"God's in his Heaven; all's right with the world."
Wrote Browning one spring when "the hill- side's dew-pearled",
Autumn is here now - and still it is so;
God's creatures proclaim it - and they ought to know.

A squirrel is building his snug winter's nest;
He's searching and begging and storing the best
Of the '49 nut crop. The old hen next door
Is an up-to-date mother, who knows what a chore
It becomes in the city to raise a large brood
Why - where would you put them? And then there's the food.
Her big laying spree had hardly begun

When she sat on two eggs - and she hatched out but one, -
One little white chick, a garage his abode,
But there's no prouder mother in all Hampshire Road.

A once-moody paper boy comes 'round at dawn,
But the rebel - the martyr - within him is gone;
For, trotting beside him now - through rain or fog -
Is a boy's best and dearest companion - a dog.

The year's at the autumn; the dancing leaves twirl. -
God's in his Heaven; all's right with the world.

Is it cloudy out your way?
Or did the groundhog find today
His shadow on the snow - or grass?
Ah, if he did - alas! alas!
You know full well you have in store
A wintry time of six weeks more.

Now, as for Cleveland - pardon me
If I seem full of fiendish glee -
Our weather man is very kind;
No shadow could the woodchuck find
(Unless he stayed up late at night,
And flirted with a gay street light).

"Procrastination", my arch foe,
Is also hiding in the show
This week - or in some ground hog's hole -
Or buried with a cat named "Pole".
Oh, may he stay there evermore,
And let me do my weekly chore
With carefree mind that tackles rhyme -
Like this - two days ahead of time.

A Baseball Rookie's Soliloquy

"A swing and a miss!" in the batter's box
Can be a disastrous thing;
But a sheltered nook on a summer's night...?
Ah, give me a miss and a swing.

Drab little creature! Nemesis
Of all good housewives:
Scheming trapper of helpless flies and bugs.-
And yet your web of gossamer
is in itself a beauteous thing.

It was only yesterday, fearing what
the neighbors say,
I swept away your work of art.
Seeing you outraged, distraught,
I felt a pang of vandalism.

God had taught you one fine art -
and, faithful to your master craft,
You set to work and wove
another silken scarf -
Flawless, full of symmetry and grace.

Oh, tiny weaver, surely God sent you here
To teach us industry and perseverance, -
And to weave the pattern of our lives
with beauteous design,
Knowing that, no matter how destructive
some external force,
God gives us limitless material
and the blueprint
To build anew each day.

Sincerely,
Florence B. Taylor

"I'd like a trip to Texas, said my single- minded spouse,
When he saw two weeks' vacation drawing near;
His overtime last hectic June would cover Greyhound fare;
Star boarder, he would help my sister dear.

"Twas all so simple - so thought he; just fling a few old clothes
Into a sturdy suitcase, and be off - sans cares and woes.
Without his host had Virgil reckoned, -
A host of relatives,
Who planned stop-over - tours de luxe -
And all that Texas gives.

"Those Moffatt folks are all high class,
And dress in neatest fashion;
You mustn't look run-down-at-the-heel,"
Said I with prideful passion.

I took his shoes to the cobbler shop,
And literally got new heels;
I tried to make him buy new shoes
But a stubborn streak reveals
Itself, as I extol the sale
Of suits in tropical worsted.
He balked completely; said, "My dear,
Our budget's already borsted."

He meekly submitted to fitting galore
In pajamas that didn't fit;
He bowed to my will about new shirts
And discarding the shorts with a slit.

Weary with work, he envisioned sleep
As a lovely morning gem;
Alas! On Mary's scheduled tours
He must rise at 4 a.m.

And there's canasta (he's never learned),
And other plans perplex us;
"And all because " as he heaved a sigh,
"I wanted to trip to Texas.

His bewildered 'widow',
Florence B. Taylor

God's lamp in the heavens, shining bright.
Swung low on the winter solstice;
You tell us that Spring is advancing with might,
and oh, how that signal exalts us! -----

Greetings, new friends - both young and old -
In the land of the Rising Sun
And Bloomdale, where the flowers are fair;
I should like you, I know, every one

It may be a recipe - tool - or a dream;
It may be a snack, or a song. -
Whatever you have in your treasure house, friends,
Oh, share it - and pass it along.

Florence B. Taylor

"C'mon, you guys, and fetch some boards;
We're gonna build a raft. -
I'll let you help - but I'm the boss;
Y' see, I'm takin' craft
"Say, Mom, we made it - quick as heck -
And, oh boy, how we laffed
When Bill, the big shot, got too smart,
And slithered off the raft."

Ah, debonair and brave Huck Finns!
The fellow must be daft
Who dreams of bliss compared to this:
A-ridin' on a raft.

Florence B. Taylor

A church spire, pointing the way toward God;
A dainty flower, pushing up from the sod,
A rainbow of hope in a misty sky;
The flag of our country, waving high.
Fresh curtains of white, in a tenement drear. -
The voice of a friend, bringing comfort, cheer.
A baby's eager, innocent face;
The lisp of a toddler, saying grace.
The song of a mother at her work;
Strong hands of youth that never shirk.
The glistening tear of sympathy, -
A children's choir in sweet harmony.

Clear eyes, bespeaking inward grace;
The tender smile of a wrinkled face.

Oh, beautiful things are everywhere:
Where beauty is - ah - God is there!

Florence B. Taylor

Oh, money-bush, grow swiftly, like a mushroom, over night;
And stay alive, like evergreens, - and pray, don't get a blight.
We need you daily - hourly - with your silver, copper leaves,
And nickels in profusion - so a guileless child believes.

A dime for notebook, dime for dues, a nickel for a coke;
A penny here, a quarter there (and parents musn't croak).
So, money-bush, grow near our door, and have a million leaves;
Just pennies, quarters, nickels, dimes (or so a child believes).

Florence B. Taylor

EDITOR'S NOTE: Mrs. Taylor resumes her poetry this week, after a trip to the New England states recently. She begins a new job this week teaching the kindergarten children near her home, and has written this prayer for them.

PRAYER FOR KINDERGARTNERS
1955

Father, lead us through this day;
Lead us in our work and play.
Help us do the things we should -
Help us to be kind and good.

Florence B. Taylor

"Why does God send the snow?" asked Dale,
As he breezed in from the white-winged gale.
Easy question. But a piercing prod
Comes from wee Roger, "Who made God?"

"How does He make the earth go 'round?"
"Where does He sleep?" And "What is sound?"
Pray for wisdom - not uncouth,
For these dear children search for truth.

Florence B. Taylor

We cannot see into the Mystic Beyond;
To mortals that privilege God must deny. -
But we may delve into the mysteries deep
Of our planet, the Earth, the sea and the sky.
My limited mind cannot fathom the depths.
Nor grasp all statistics that men have compiled;
But give me, I pray, just this one searching power;
Oh, let me look into the heart of a child.

Florence B. Taylor

In the Bible we read of the little stray sheep -
The only one out of a hundred;
The shepherd corralled his good ninety and nine,
Then searched for the wee one that blundered.

In my little school I have thirty, aged five,
Who could almost wear halos and wings;
But there's one little demon - a black sheep indeed,
Who does such abom'nable things.

In anger, resentment, we said, "Throw him out!
And only the good children keep."
But I hear a low voice - the good Shepherd's

Command:
"Search out and retrieve my lost sheep."

Florence B. Taylor

You envy the platform magician,
Who compresses twelve scarves in a hat,
Then draws forth a fluffy white bunny, -
But we can do better than that!
Try compressing the gadgets for living
From a big house or even a flat
To a dear little 15-foot trailer
I wonder -- could Thurston do that?

The trailer is hitched to the sturdy Bel Aire
The gas tank is full. So are hearts;
For it means leaving children - and
grandchildren too,
For warmer - but long-distance parts.
The headlights face southward -
To follow the sun.
Columbus our first destination
By route 42 - with the friendly landmarks
And Autumn's "Fine Arts" demonstration.

In Washington now on a limited lark,
Our trailer in Alexandria park.
We drive fifteen miles to pick up our mail;
But oh! it is worth it! Our loved don't fail.
In a modest delicatessen we sat
By Bob Abernathy (TV). Think of that!
But meeting and talking with him was mild
Compared to a letter from retarded dear child.
(A recent Cleveland pupil of mine;
Her brain may be hampered; her heart is divine).
Yesterday eased 'round George Washington's shrine;
Fifty bright, fluttering flags circling fine.
Visited Capitol; thrilled once again
At pictures and statues of heroic men.
The Senate in session, but our parked car, alas,
On limited time would not warrant a pass.
On Capitol grounds, then, whom should we meet
But the tamest of squirrels, begging something to eat.
Today to the White House. Tomorrow we'll find
In Congressional Library books for the Blind.
While children were scanning our trailer one day.
An itinerant bumble bee wended his way
Within our gay portals - and sat on my seat.
Unnoticed by me 'til I sat down to eat
He shot his wee arrow straight into the air;
It landed unerringly - you know where!
And now I must close - for the last mail is due.
Next week a cute gypsy tale.
And it is true!

Affectionately,
Florence B. Taylor

A weird tale, indeed: I'm
about to unfold:
How a wee bit of silver was
changed into gold.
In our Alexandria huge trailer park
My Virgil went strolling.
('Twas long before dark).
Two "swarthy" young women
- with dear little girl -
Accosted him smiling, a tale to unfurl.
"Good morning" said extrovert
woman, and smiled.
"This is the birthday - my dear
little child.
How would you like to give her a gift?
She is three years today. Give
her wee heart a lift."
So Virgil - as gallant as they
ever come -
Reached into his pocket for
package of gum.
"Thank you, kind sir, but it
would be dandy
If you gave her money, to buy
her some candy."
So Virgil, now caught in the
"tender trap"
Reached once again - and thus
took the rap.
When he came home, like a dog
that was whipped.
He said, "Those were gypsies
and I have been gypped.
Next day I encountered these
women so bold,
The brazenest one had on
slippers of gold."

Florence B. Taylor

A is for Athens, Georgia, the home of a brand- new bride,
Whom we love - and her prince! Ensign, who at Naval Supply School reside.
A is Atlanta, also, where we took "Annie one day
To see world-famed Cyclorama, grim depiction of "blue and the Gray".
C is for Cleveland - Columbus: our starting point and our first stop;
The latter: the home of two loved ones; one widowed, one crushed in car flop.
D is for Danville, Virginia, the home of the Dan River dresses.
We got there, alas, Friday evening, - too late for grand tour it possesses.
D is also DeLand, the city of culture and beauty,
Where good friends grow exotic flowers, and give such in civic, church duty.
G is for Greenville, Carolina (the South one), with glorious view
Of mountains. A wonderful couple, who with kindness keep real rendezvous.
H is for Hendersonvilla for "villa" in strict-English); the state? North Carolina.
The scenery? Gorgeous. To live there
is dear friends' happy fate.

(to be continued)
Affectionately,
Florence B. Taylor

Another week I must tell you of cities and
culture supreme;
But now I am full of Marineland - and creatures
that lives in the stream, -
Of porpoises, playful and clever, who play ball
and leap over the hurdles;
Who ring bells and sing songs a cappella,
'Til your nerves tingle and your blood curdles.
Two whales, newly shipped from the west coast,
are very bright pupils indeed;
The one had a "medical check-up" as prescribed
in a true medic's creed.
When the doctor inquired how his health is,
the whale had a "whale" of a line:
Such howling and moaning - complaining; next
moment; relaxed and sublime,
While "doctor", with stethoscope, listened to
heart-beat; then, with rubber mallet,
Tried "reflexes"; oh, what a splashing! His
report card marked "A" in my ballot.

Such fantastic turtles - sea urchins, and tiny
fish - purple and gold.
That Marineland is truly exotic, with all the
charm one place can hold.

Just one note on trailerite living: hospitality
has a revival;
At St. Augustine's Lazy J Ranch the hostess
greets each new arrival
With platter of piping hot biscuits, her wel-
come to tired, hungry souls.
You feel then that "God's in His Heaven; all's
well with" this world and its goals. Affectionately,
Florence B. Taylor

To friends and loved ones, big and small:

A Happy New Year to you all.

The little trailer jogs along -

Five thousand miles, intact and strong.

Five days in Washington, D.C.,

With wondrous, stirring things to see;

Monticello: charming home

Of our great Thomas Jefferson.

In Richmond, which great patriots drew,

We sat in Patrick Henry's pew!

Williamsburg - a must for all

Americans, both big and small,

To learn how men of that great age

Provided Freedom's heritage.

Jamestown: crude huts tell the story

Of our first English settlers' glory.

Yorktown - cannon-scenes replete,

To show Cornwallis' defeat.

Norfolk - and Navy shipyards vast;

Old Glory flies from every mast.

At Suffolk storehouse made brief stay,

Where twelve fat tons of peanuts lay.

Down through peanut, cotton fields

And acres that tobacco yields.

Skipped west to Raleigh and look

At Capitol; got Talking books.

A courtesy to all the Blind, -

Ambrosia for the active mind.

In Charleston: wealth - and squalor stark;

'Twas there we met the great Mark Clark,

President of the Citadel;

Two thousand lads revere him well.

Savannah - ocean and river bounded,

Where organized "Girl Scouts" was founded.

In hospitals along the way

We tried to give, in some small way,

With auto harp and Virgil's cello,

A little cheer to child or fellow -

Not so lucky now as we -

A bit of home made melody

Jacksonville - and warmth serene;

Lovely, quaint St. Augustine.

Marineland: fish and turtles rare;

Trained porpoises leap thru the air.

Down the east coast, all the way,

Dear old friends enrich our stay.

Of all the states, north, east, south, west

For trailerites Fort Myers is best.

Sarasota: culture town -

And friend bereft, who scorns to frown.

Bartow - and special kindness felt;

Ocala - through the citrus belt.

Tallahassee: college city;

Dinky capitol, - a pity!

Pensacola - fishing boats;

An ancient junk-man driving goats,

Mobile Bay - then New Orleans:

Modern rush - and quaint French scenes.

We parked the trailer and the flivver;

Took a ride on Old Man River.

Sugar cane trucks by the dozens;

Beaumont, Texas: dear, kind cousins.

Raced through hills and Texas prairie

To Austin - and my sister Mary.

Pennsylvania cousins flew -

To be with us the Christmas through.

Did we wrap with ribbons red?

No! We helped bake cakes instead.

Were we sparkling, bright and gay?

We were washing pans all day.

Did we go a caroling?

Yes, for orphans we did sing.

Once again we read the story

Of the Christ Child and the glory

That came down from Heaven to earth

On the night of Jesus' birth.

May the Christmas spirit dear

Stay with us in this new year.

Apologies to our Saltsburg friends, -
And if this rushing never ends,

I'll send you news of all the sights:

The mountain views - and new delights.

But trailering's no easy chore.

(To tell you all would be a bore).

So bear with me until next week,

When I will tell of friends and freak.

Cordially,
Florence B. Taylor

The highways of life are the roads to success -
Achievement - whatever one's ultimate goal;
But the by-ways of life are the little side paths
Where you gather hyacinths for the soul.

The highways today are the super freeways,
With speeds more than one mile a minute;
Oh, let's take the by-ways, - some little side roads -
With Nature untouched; revel in it.