The old man turned to me and asked, "How many friends have you?"
"Why, 10 or 20 friends have i," and I named off just a few.
He rose quite slowly with effort and sadly shook his head.
"A lucky child you are to have so many friends," he said.
"But think of what you're saying . There is so much you do don't know.
A friend is just not someone to whom you say hello.
A friend is a tender shoulder on which to softly cry, a well to pour your troubles
down and raise your spirits high. A friend is a hand to pull you up from darkness and
despair when all your other so-called friends have helped to put you there
A true friend is an ally who can't be moved or bought, a voice to keep your name
alive when others have forgotten
But most of all a friend is a heart, a strong and sturdy wall, for from the hearts of
friends there comes the greates love of all.
So think of what I've spoken, for every word is true, and answer once again, my
child, how many friends have you?"
And then he stood and faced me, awaiting my reply.
Softly I answered, "If lucky ...... one have I. You."