New songs are made in long array; we learn and sing them,--for a day,
and then they fade and die away. But when the long, sad day is
through, refreshing as the evening dew, are those old songs our fathers
knew. New books, in rich and gorgeous dress, are coming hourly from
the press, and charm by all their lovliness. But when from bench or
desk we roam, to find the resting place at home, we read the old, old
treasured tome. New friends are made at every reach of our long road
to Styx's beach; new friends of warm and pleasant speech. But when
life's sun is in the West, and feet are tired and hearts oppressed, the
old time friend seems always best.