Spring's Greatest Joy Beyond A Doubt Is

It Takes A Heap O' Livin' In A House T' Make It Home

I'd Like To Be The Sort Of Friend That You Have Been To Me. I'd Like To Be The Help That You've Been Always Glad To Be; I'd Like To Mean As Much To You Each Minute Of The Day, As You Have Meant, Old Friend Of Mine, To Me Along The Way.

All The World Loves A Lover, But How It Does Laugh At His Love Letters.

But Here In The Struggle For Fame And Pelf I Want To Be Able To Like Myself. I Don't Want To Look At Myself And Know That I'm Bluster And Buff And Empty Show.

There's Nothing That Builds Up A Toil-weary Soul Like A Day On A Stream, Back On The Banks Of The Old Fishing Hole Where A Fellow Can Dream. There's Nothing So Good For A Man As To Flee From The City And Lie Full Length In The Shade Of A Whispering Tree And Gaze At The Sky. . . . . It Is Good For The World That Men Hunger To Go To The Banks Of A Stream, And Weary Of Sham And Of Pomp And Of Show They Have Somewhere To Dream. For This Life Would Be Dreary And Sordid And Base Did They Not Now And Then Seek Refreshment And Calm In God's Wide, Open Space And Come Back To Be Men.