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Poem	I never thought that Bill could say A proper prayer; 'Twas more in his hard-bitten way To cuss and swear; Yet came the night when Baby Ted Was bitter ill, I tip-toed to his tiny bed, And there was Bill. Aye, down upon his bended knees I heard him cry: "O God, don't take my kiddy, please! Don't let him die!" Then softly so he would not see, I shrank away: He would have been so shamed for me To see him pray. Men-folk are queer: Bill acts up tough, Yet how it's odd, When things are looking downright rough He tunes to God. "The Parson and the Priest be darned!" I've heard him say: Yet when his baby is concerned He's quick to pray. Maybe it's gentle parent-hood That gives us grace, And in its sacrificial mood Uplifts the race. Of sentiment, all self above, That goodness sums I think the saving best is Love For little ones.
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