I said, “Sonny, you have had a rough time.”

And this was his reply: “They copped me, worse luck, before I had a pot at
them.”

You can’t beat these boys of yours, the nation’s boys, the best boys of
our homes, the flower of our manhood, the noblest and the dearest that God
ever gave to a people. These boys, they are worth everything in the world,
and there is _nothing_ you and I can do will ever repay them for what they
are doing for you and for me.

* * * * *

When the great end of the day comes, the greatest joy of all will be the
joy of knowing you have tried to make somebody else’s life happy. It is
the flowers that you have made grow in unlikely places that will tell—not
how much money you have made, not how big a house you have lived in, not
how popular you were in the world of letters, of science, of finance,
but—how many burdens have you lifted? How many dark hearts have you
lightened? You can’t do too much for your boys. Remember what they are
doing for you. Remember the lives that are being laid down for you.

I shook hands with a boy a little while ago in Scarborough, and he said,
“I believe I hold the record for having lost most in the war. I have lost
five brothers, my sister was killed in the war, and my mother died of a
broken heart through grief, but,” he said, “I’ll give my next week’s pay,
sir, towards this new hut.”

Another boy, when I was making my appeal, said, “I’ve been wounded and I