Our California

We wrote to a friend back east one day,
And told him all we thought to say.
We filled a dozen pages or more,
Of the glories of this far western shore.

He said, when he answered in reply,
"I thought that heaven was up on high.
From what you say of your state so fair,
I think that heaven must be out there."

"If your highways all are paved so grand,
And stars so bright o'er all the land,
The mountain streams beyond compare,
Then surely heaven must be out there."

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"I thought that heaven was free from toil,
But your letter says you till the soil.
Yet, if you have such wonderful air,
Where is heaven if not out there?"

"The rising sun you say is fine,
And the early morning like red wine.
To be sure," he said, "I must declare,
From what you write me heaven is there."

"Have you received your starry crown?"
He said, "Your cross, have you laid down,
Do all the angels have blonde hair,
In this heaven you write me of out there?"

"You say it's filled with those who play,
And more are coming every day,
Yet, there is always room to spare.
Please tell me more of heaven out there."

We wrote him, "We can tell no more,
But when you reach this western shore,
Studebakers you'll see them everywhere."
Then, he said, "Heaven is there."

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—The Car with Character.