The Man Who Does His Best

The Man who Does his Best There is praise for the hero who fought in the field Where to kill was the business of men; And we join with the throng in the shout and the song, While they laud him again and again. But how seldom we sing, What small tribute we bring, How few words in approval we say For the man who is honestly doing his best In the duties of every day. We drape with our colors and garlands of green, With roses we bower the hall, To honor the chief of a party or clan, Of whom we know nothing at all; But how seldom we meet Faithful service to greet, How few flowers we strew in the way, Our approval to show For the person we know, Who is doing his best every day. We give medals for valor and badges for fame; And we herald the glory abroad, When somebody happens to get on the heights By justice, or scheming, or fraud. But the brother who gives, Every day that he lives, What his hands and his brain can bestow, May get blame for his pains, Or a grudge for his gains — He has never a trophy to show. A writer of yore, who was wise in the lore Of humanity's failings, has said, Recognition of worth is so slow on the earth One may oft need a poultice instead. Yet the greatest of creeds Is the doctrine of deeds; And the man who is true to his trust, Among laborers or kings, He shall rule many things — 'Tis a verdict eternal and just. Provo, Utah Annie D. Palmer tJ