The Friends Who Come Too Late by Mrs. L. R. Reynolds

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Sep 11, 1913

The Friends Who Come Too Late

By Mrs. L. R. Reynolds

MRS. L. R. REYNOLDS

Just a poor little bird with a broken wing; It never could fly, but it tried to sing. So it sang a sweet song one bright summer day, And that song wakened echoes in hearts far away. In those tones full of pathos from the little bird's throat Was his heart poured forth in each plaintive note. Soon the birds all came flocking from field and from lane To join in the music and swell the refrain; And they chirped and they twittered as much as to say, We'll hold a bird concert with you every day. But that suffering bird that never could soar Chirped his dying note, and was lonely no more.

Just a soul that was feeble, decrepit, and old, Without any pleasures or friends or gold, Felt a pang in his heart that never would cease Till he put it in words, or in verse, if you please; Then he set it to music. 'Twas not very grand, But the quavering notes by the breezes fanned Went forth on their mission till an echo they stirred That touched other hearts, like the song of the bird. It awakened past memories which long had slept In their worldly hearts while the old man wept. And they haste, now too late, their neglect to atone: With that plaintive song went his last sad moan.

Ah! these friends who come late are of little account. So heedless are we when we're on the mount And they in the valley with broken wing, Or feeble and old and unable to sing. And many a heart is now lonely and sad Which we by our efforts should cheer and make glad.

Forgetful are we; and our minds so engrossed With our every-day cares that those things which count most Are neglected by us till at length there is heard Some quavering notes and our heartstrings are stirred; Then, too late, we oft flock, like the birds on the wing, At the feet of the singer our garlands to fling.

Wichita, Kans.