The furrow's long behind my plow— My field is strewn with stones of care, And trouble gathers thick enow As years add silver to my hair. Could I an easier path prepare For baby feet that start to mount?— Save them a bit of wear and tear,— And show the little things that count? I see a tiny maiden bow O'er slate and pencil, in her chair: A little pucker on her brow, A little tousle in her hair. And one wee tear has fallen where The crooked figures grin and flount; My heart goes reaching to her there— I love the little things that count! Arithmetic is such a slough— A pilgrim's swamp of dull despair, But Discipline will not allow My hand to point a thoro'fare. Harsh figures face us everywhere, O'erwhelming in their vast amount; Must she so soon their burden bear?— I love the little things that count! Stern Teacher, must she ever fare Alone to Learning's chilly fount? There is so much I long to share— I @3love@1 the Little Things That Count! |