The following poem appeared in the July 1, 1915 edition of  the Arma Record  (the hometown newspaper).  Author unknown.

Arma, Our own little town.

There are fancier towns than the little old town,
    There are towns that are bigger than this;
And the people who live in the tinier town,
    All the city contentment may miss.
There are things you can see in the wealthier town,
    That you can't in a town that is small--
        And yet, up and down,
        There is no other town,
    Like your own little town, after all.

It may be the street through the heart of the town
    Isn't long, isn't wide, isn't straight.
But the neighbors you know in your own little town
    With a welcome your coming await.
On the glittering streets of the glittering town,
    By the palace and pavement and wall,
        In the midst of the throng,
        You will long, you will long,
    For your own little town after all.

It was here by the stile in your own little town
    Father courted your mother, a maid;
It was here in the vale in your own little town
    That he built a home in the shade.
It was here on the hill in your own little town
    That the school and the book you recall--
        Ev'ry step of the way,
        So your memories say,
    It's the best little town after all.

For it isn't by money you measure a town,
    Or the miles that its border extends;
For the best things you gather, whatever the town,
    Are contentment, enjoyment and friends.
If you live and you work and you trade in your town,
    In spite of the fact it is small;
        You will find that the town
        Arma, your own little town,
    Is the best little town after all.