Men are of two kinds, and he was of the kind I'd like to be.

Some preached their virtues, and a few expressed their lives by what they do.

That sort was he.

No flowery praise or glibly spoken words of praise won friends for him. He wasn't cheap or shallow, but his

course ran deep, and it was pure. You know the kind. Not many in a life you find whose deeds

outrun their words so far that more than what they seem, they are. There are two kinds of

lies as well, the kind you live, the ones you tell.

Back through his years from age to youth, he never acted one untruth. Out in the open light he fought,

and didn't care what others thought, nor what they said about his fight if he believed that he was right.

The only deeds he ever hid were acts of kindness that he did.

What speech he had was plain and blunt. His was an unattractive front.

Yet children loved him, babe and boy, played with the strength he could

employ. Without one fear, they are fleet to sense injustice and deceit. No backdoor gossip linked

his name with any shady tale of shame. He did not have to compromise with evil-doers, shrewd and wise,

and let them ply their vicious trade because of some past escapade.

Men are of two kinds, and he was of the kind I'd like to be. No door at which he ever knocked

against his manly form was locked. If ever man on earth was free and independent, it was he.

No broken pledge lost him respect. He met all men with head erect.

And when he passed, I think there went, a soul to yonder firmament.

So white, so splendid, and so fine, it came almost to God's design.

By Edward Albert Guest.

There will always be something to do, my boy.

...