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My Friend. 
What do I care that his hair is gray, 
His forehead crossed with many a line, 
That his step is slow, and his years I know 
Are three times mine? 
That his once bright eye has begun to fade, 
And his once straight form to bend, 
What do I care? His heart is there — 
J Tis for that that I love my friend. 
’Tis not only years that have dimmed his eye. 
And turned his hair from its bright hue— 
They have left their trace on the gentle face 
So kind and true— 
But the saddening touch of Sorrow’s hand 
Those mournful lines have penned; 
Yet still I find the noble mind — 
9 Tis for that that I love my friend. 
And what do I care that others scorn 
His humble mien and furrowed face? 
To me rests there a beauty rare, 
The holy grace 
Of a pure life lived by the Master s side , 
Serving him to the end; 
And my heart I raise in grateful praise — 
Thank God , that I have my friend. 
— Anon. 
There is no sneer more contemptuous than that which we sometimes 
witness directed against the friendships of youth. 
Let our young people, after prayerful selection, recognize the im¬ 
measurable value of the affection of a fellow-being. 
True friendship waxes warmest in times of trial. 
A funeral will bring all your kindly neighbors to your door with 
words of sympathy, provided the disease which took away your friend was 
