How do you tackle your work each day? With confidence clear, or dread? What to yourself do you stop and say When a new task lies ahead? What is the thought that is in your mind? Is fear ever running through it? If so, just tackle the next you find By thinking you're going to do it.

Edgar A. Guest.

From "A Heap o' Livin'."



MAN OR MANIKIN

The world does not always distinguish between appearance and true merit. Pretence often gets the plaudits, but desert is above them—it has rewards of its own.

No matter whence you came, from a palace or a ditch, You're a man, man, man, if you square yourself to life; And no matter what they say, hermit-poor or Midas-rich, You are nothing but a husk if you sidestep strife.

For it's do, do, do, with a purpose all your own, That makes a man a man, whether born a serf or king; And it's loaf, loaf, loaf, lolling on a bench or throne That makes a being thewed to act a limp and useless thing!

No matter what you do, miracles or fruitless deeds, You're a man, man, man, if you do them with a will; And no matter how you loaf, cursing wealth or mumbling creeds, You are nothing but a noise, and its weight is nil.

For it's be, be, be, champion of your heart and soul, That makes a man a man, whether reared in silk or rags; And it's talk, talk, talk, from a tattered shirt or stole, That makes the image of a god a manikin that brags.

Richard Butler Glaenzer.

From "Munsey's Magazine."



HAVING DONE AND DOING

(ADAPTED FROM "TROILUS AND CRESSIDA")

A member of Parliament, having succeeded notably in his maiden effort at speech-making, remained silent through the rest of his career lest he should not duplicate his triumph. This course was stupid; in time the address which had brought him fame became a theme for disparagement and mockery. A man cannot rest upon his laurels, else he will soon lack the laurels to rest on. If he has true ability, he must from time to time show it, instead of asking us to recall what he did in the past. There is a natural instinct which makes the whole world kin. It is distrust of a mere reputation. It is a hankering to be shown. Unless the evidence to set us right is forthcoming, we will praise dust which is gilded over rather than gold which is dusty from disuse.

Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-sized monster of ingratitudes: Those scraps are good deeds past; which are devoured As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done: perseverance, dear my lord, Keeps honor bright: to have done, is to hang Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail In monumental mockery. Take the instant way; For honor travels in a strait so narrow Where one but goes abreast: keep, then, the path; For emulation hath a thousand sons That one by one pursue: if you give way, Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, Like to an entered tide they all rush by And leave you hindmost; Or, like a gallant horse fallen in first rank, Lie there for pavement to the abject rear, O'errun and trampled on: then what they do in present, Though less than yours in past, must o'ertop yours; For time is like a fashionable host, That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand, And with his arms outstretched, as he would fly, Grasps in the comer: welcome ever smiles, And farewell goes out sighing. O! let not virtue seek Remuneration for the thing it was; for beauty, wit, High birth, vigor of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating time. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin, That all with one consent praise new-born gawds, Though they are made and moulded of things past, And give to dust that is a little gilt More laud than gilt o'er-dusted. The present eye praises the present object, Since things in motion sooner catch the eye Than what not stirs.

William Shakespeare.



FAITH

Faith is not a passive thing—mere believing or waiting. It is an active thing—a positive striving and achievement, even if conditions be untoward.

Faith is not merely praying Upon your knees at night; Faith is not merely straying Through darkness to the light.

Faith is not merely waiting For glory that may be, Faith is not merely hating The sinful ecstasy.

Faith is the brave endeavor The splendid enterprise, The strength to serve, whatever Conditions may arise.

S.E. Kiser.



OPPORTUNITY

What is opportunity? To the brilliant mind of Senator Ingalls it is a stupendous piece of luck. It comes once and once only to every human being, wise or foolish, good or wicked. If it be not perceived on the instant, it passes by forever. No longing for it, no effort, can bring it back. Notice that this view is fatalistic; it makes opportunity an external thing—one that enriches men or leaves their lives empty without much regard to what they deserve.

Master of human destinies am I! Fame, love, and fortune on my footsteps wait. Cities and fields I walk; I penetrate Deserts and seas remote, and passing by Hovel and mart and palace—soon or late I knock, unbidden, once at every gate! If sleeping, wake—if feasting, rise before I turn away. It is the hour of fate, And they who follow me reach every state Mortals desire, and conquer every foe Save death; but those who doubt or hesitate, Condemned to failure, penury, and woe, Seek me in vain and uselessly implore. I answer not, and I return no more!

John James Ingalls.



OPPORTUNITY

There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat; And we must take the current when it serves, Or lose our ventures.

William Shakespeare.



OPPORTUNITY

To the thought of the preceding poem we have here a direct answer. No matter how a man may have failed in the past, the door of opportunity is always open to him. He should not give way to useless regrets; he should know that the future is within his control, that it will be what he chooses to make it.

They do me wrong who say I come no more When once I knock and fail to find you in; For every day I stand outside your door, And bid you wake, and rise to fight and win.

Wail not for precious chances passed away, Weep not for golden ages on the wane! Each night I burn the records of the day,— At sunrise every soul is born again!

Laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped, To vanished joys be blind and deaf and dumb; My judgments seal the dead past with its dead, But never bind a moment yet to come.

Though deep in mire, wring not your hands and weep; I lend my arm to all who say "I can!" No shame-faced outcast ever sank so deep, But yet might rise and be again a man!

Dost thou behold thy lost youth all aghast? Dost reel from righteous Retribution's blow? Then turn from blotted archives of the past, And find the future's pages white as snow.

Art thou a mourner? Rouse thee from thy spell; Art thou a sinner? Sins may be forgiven; Each morning gives thee wings to flee from hell, Each night a star to guide thy feet to heaven.

Walter Malone.



OPPORTUNITY

In this poem yet another view of opportunity is presented. The recreant or the dreamer complains that he has no real chance. He would succeed, he says, if he had but the implements of success—money, influence, social prestige, and the like. But success lies far less in implements than in the use we make of them. What one man throws away as useless, another man seizes as the best means of victory at hand. For every one of us the materials for achievement are sufficient. The spirit that prompts us is what ultimately counts.

This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:— There spread a cloud of dust along a plain; And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes. A craven hung along the battle's edge, And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel— That blue blade that the king's son bears,—but this Blunt thing—!" he snapt and flung it from his hand, And lowering crept away and left the field. Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead, And weaponless, and saw the broken sword, Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand, And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down, And saved a great cause that heroic day.

Edward Rowland Sill.

From "Poems."



MY PHILOSOPHY

Though dogs persist in barking at the moon, the moon's business is not to answer the dogs or to waste strength placating them, but simply to shine. The man who strives or succeeds is sure to be criticized. Is he therefore to abstain from all effort? We are responsible for our own lives and cannot regulate them according to other people's ideas. "Whoso would be a man," says Emerson, "must be a nonconformist."

I allus argy that a man Who does about the best he can Is plenty good enugh to suit This lower mundane institute— No matter ef his daily walk Is subject fer his neghbor's talk, And critic-minds of ev'ry whim Jest all git up and go fer him!

* * * * *

It's natchurl enugh, I guess, When some gits more and some gits less, Fer them-uns on the slimmest side To claim it ain't a fare divide; And I've knowed some to lay and wait, And git up soon, and set up late, To ketch some feller they could hate For goin' at a faster gait.

* * * * *

My doctern is to lay aside Contensions, and be satisfied: Jest do your best, and praise er blame That follers that, counts jest the same. I've allus noticed grate success Is mixed with troubles, more er less, And it's the man who does the best That gits more kicks than all the rest.

James Whitcomb Riley.

From the Biographical Edition Of the Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley.



ULYSSES

This volume consists chiefly of contemporary or very recent verse. But it could not serve its full purpose without the presence, here and there, of older poems—of "classics." These express a truth, a mood, or a spirit that is universal, and they express it in words of noble dignity and beauty. They are not always easy to understand; they are crops we must patiently cultivate, not crops that volunteer. But they wear well; they grow upon us; we come back to them again and again, and still they are fresh, living, significant—not empty, meaningless, and weather-worn, like a last year's crow's nest.

Such a poem is Ulysses. It is shot through and through with the spirit of strenuous and never-ceasing endeavor—a spirit manifest in a hero who has every temptation to rest and enjoy. Ulysses is old. After ten long years of warfare before Troy, after endless misfortunes on his homeward voyage, after travels and experiences that have taken him everywhere and shown him everything that men know and do, he has returned to his rude native kingdom. He is reunited with his wife Penelope and his son Telemachus. He is rich and famous. Yet he is unsatisfied. The task and routine of governing a slow, materially minded people, though suited to his son's temperament, are unsuited to his. He wants to wear out rather than to rust out. He wants to discover what the world still holds. He wants to drink life to the lees. The morning has passed, the long day has waned, twilight and the darkness are at hand. But scant as are the years left to him, he will use them in a last, incomparable quest. He rallies his old comrades—tried men who always

"With a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine"—

and asks them to brave with him once more the hazards and the hardships of the life of vast; unsubdued enterprise.

It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel; I will drink Life to the lees. All times I have enjoy'd Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea. I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known,—cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honor'd of them all,— And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades For ever and for ever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains; but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,— Well-beloved of me, discerning to fulfil This labor, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail; There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me,— That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads,—you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honor and his toil. Death closes all; but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks; The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends. 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down; It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,— One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Alfred Tennyson.



PREPAREDNESS

For all your days prepare, And meet them ever alike: When you are the anvil, bear— When you are the hammer, strike.

Edwin Markham.

From "The Gates of Paradise, and Other Poems."



THE WISDOM OF FOLLY

"Jog on, jog on, the footpath way, And merrily hent the stile-a: A merry heart goes all the day, Your sad tires in a mile-a."

Shakespeare's lilting stanza conveys a great truth—the power of cheerfulness to give impetus and endurance. The a at the end of lines is merely an addition in singing; the word hent means take.

The cynics say that every rose Is guarded by a thorn which grows To spoil our posies; But I no pleasure therefore lack; I keep my hands behind my back When smelling roses.

Though outwardly a gloomy shroud The inner half of every cloud Is bright and shining: I therefore turn my clouds about, And always wear them inside out To show the lining.

My modus operandi this— To take no heed of what's amiss; And not a bad one; Because, as Shakespeare used to say, A merry heart goes twice the way That tires a sad one.

Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler. (The Honorable Mrs. Alfred Felkin.)

From "Verses Wise and Otherwise."



SEE IT THROUGH

An American traveler in Italy stood watching a lumberman who, as the logs floated down a swift mountain stream, jabbed his hook in an occasional one and drew it carefully aside. "Why do you pick out those few?" the traveler asked. "They all look alike." "But they are not alike, seignior. The logs I let pass have grown on the side of a mountain, where they have been protected all their lives. Their grain is coarse; they are good only for lumber. But these logs, seignior, grew on the top of the mountain. From the time they were sprouts and saplings they were lashed and buffeted by the winds, and so they grew strong with fine grain. We save them for choice work; they are not 'lumber,' seignior."

When you're up against a trouble, Meet it squarely, face to face; Lift your chin and set your shoulders, Plant your feet and take a brace. When it's vain to try to dodge it, Do the best that you can do; You may fail, but you may conquer, See it through!

Black may be the clouds about you And your future may seem grim, But don't let your nerve desert you; Keep yourself in fighting trim. If the worse is bound to happen, Spite of all that you can do, Running from it will not save you, See it through!

Even hope may seem but futile, When with troubles you're beset, But remember you are facing Just what other men have met. You may fail, but fall still fighting; Don't give up, whate'er you do; Eyes front, head high to the finish. See it through!

Edgar A. Guest.

From "Just Folks."



DECEMBER 31

If January 1 is an ideal time for renewed consecration, December 31 is an ideal time for thankful reminiscence. The year has not brought us everything we might have hoped, but neither has it involved us in everything we might have feared. Many are the perils, the failures, the miseries we have escaped, and life to us is still gracious and wholesome and filled to the brim with satisfaction.

Best day of all the year, since I May see thee pass and know That if thou dost not leave me high Thou hast not found me low, And since, as I behold thee die, Thou leavest me the right to say That I to-morrow still may vie With them that keep the upward way.

Best day of all the year to me, Since I may stand and gaze Across the grayish past and see So many crooked ways That might have led to misery, Or might have ended at Disgrace— Best day since thou dost leave me free To look the future in the face.

Best day of all days of the year, That was so kind, so good, Since thou dost leave me still the dear Old faith in brotherhood— Best day since I, still striving here, May view the past with small regret, And, undisturbed by doubts or fear, Seeks paths that are untrod as yet.

S.E. Kiser.



RING OUT, WILD BELLS

This great New Year's piece belongs almost as well to every day in the year, since it expresses a social ideal of justice and happiness.

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be.

Alfred Tennyson.



WORK

The dog that dropped his bone to snap at its reflection in the water went dinnerless. So do we often lose the substance—the joy—of our work by longing for tasks we think better fitted to our capabilities.

Let me but do my work from day to day, In field or forest, at the desk or loom, In roaring market-place or tranquil room; Let me but find it in my heart to say, When vagrant wishes beckon me astray, "This is my work; my blessing, not my doom; Of all who live, I am the one by whom This work can best be done in the right way."

Then shall I see it not too great, nor small To suit my spirit and to prove my powers; Then shall I cheerful greet the laboring hours, And cheerful turn, when the long shadows fall At eventide, to play and love and rest, Because I know for me my work is best.

Henry Van Dyke.

From "Collected Poems."



START WHERE YOU STAND

When a man who had been in the penitentiary applied to Henry Ford for employment, he started to tell Mr. Ford his story. "Never mind," said Mr. Ford, "I don't care about the past. Start where you stand!"—Author's note.

Start where you stand and never mind the past, The past won't help you in beginning new, If you have left it all behind at last Why, that's enough, you're done with it, you're through; This is another chapter in the book, This is another race that you have planned, Don't give the vanished days a backward look, Start where you stand.

The world won't care about your old defeats If you can start anew and win success, The future is your time, and time is fleet And there is much of work and strain and stress; Forget the buried woes and dead despairs, Here is a brand new trial right at hand, The future is for him who does and dares, Start where you stand.

Old failures will not halt, old triumphs aid, To-day's the thing, to-morrow soon will be; Get in the fight and face it unafraid, And leave the past to ancient history; What has been, has been; yesterday is dead And by it you are neither blessed nor banned, Take courage, man, be brave and drive ahead, Start where you stand.

Berton Braley.

From "A Banjo at Armageddon."



A HOPEFUL BROTHER

A Cripple Creek miner remarked that he had hunted for gold for twenty-five years. He was asked how much he had found. "None," he replied, "but the prospects are good."

Ef you ask him, day or night, When the worl' warn't runnin' right, "Anything that's good in sight?" This is allus what he'd say, In his uncomplainin' way— "Well, I'm hopin'."

When the winter days waz nigh, An' the clouds froze in the sky, Never sot him down to sigh, But, still singin' on his way, He'd stop long enough to say— "Well, I'm hopin'."

Dyin', asked of him that night (Sperrit waitin' fer its flight), "Brother, air yer prospec's bright?" An'—last words they heard him say, In the ol', sweet, cheerful way— "Well, I'm hopin'."

Frank L. Stanton.

"The Atlanta Constitution."



A SONG OF THANKSGIVING

We should have grateful spirits, not merely for personal benefits, but also for the right to sympathize, to understand, to help, to trust, to struggle, to aspire.

Thank God I can rejoice In human things—the multitude's glad voice, The street's warm surge beneath the city light, The rush of hurrying faces on my sight, The million-celled emotion in the press That would their human fellowship confess. Thank Thee because I may my brother feed, That Thou hast opened me unto his need, Kept me from being callous, cold and blind, Taught me the melody of being kind. Thus, for my own and for my brother's sake— Thank Thee I am awake!

Thank Thee that I can trust! That though a thousand times I feel the thrust Of faith betrayed, I still have faith in man, Believe him pure and good since time began— Thy child forever, though he may forget The perfect mould in which his soul was set. Thank Thee that when love dies, fresh love springs up. New wonders pour from Heaven's cup. Young to my soul the ancient need returns, Immortal in my heart the ardor burns; My altar fires replenished from above— Thank Thee that I can love!

Thank Thee that I can hear, Finely and keenly with the inner ear, Below the rush and clamor of a throng The mighty music of the under-song. And when the day has journeyed to its rest, Lo, as I listen, from the amber west, Where the great organ lifts its glowing spires, There sounds the chanting of the unseen choirs. Thank Thee for sight that shows the hidden flame Beneath all breathing, throbbing things the same, Thy Pulse the pattern of the thing to be.... Thank Thee that I can see!

Thank Thee that I can feel! That though life's blade be terrible as steel, My soul is stript and naked to the fang, I crave the stab of beauty and the pang. To be alive, To think, to yearn, to strive, To suffer torture when the goal is wrong, To be sent back and fashioned strong Rejoicing in the lesson that was taught By all the good the grim experience wrought; At last, exulting, to arrive.... Thank God I am alive!

Angela Morgan.

From "The Hour Has Struck."



LOSE THE DAY LOITERING

Anything is hard to begin, whether it be taking a cold bath, writing a letter, clearing up a misunderstanding, or falling to on the day's work. Yet "a thing begun is half done." No matter how unpleasant a thing is to do, begin it and immediately it becomes less unpleasant. Form the excellent habit of making a start.

Lose the day loitering, 'twill be the same story To-morrow, and the next more dilatory, For indecision brings its own delays, And days are lost lamenting o'er lost days. Are you in earnest? Seize this very minute! What you can do, or think you can, begin it! Only engage, and then the mind grows heated; Begin it, and the work will be completed.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.



PLAYING THE GAME

We don't like the man who whines that the cards were stacked against him or that the umpire cheated. We admire the chap who, when he must take his medicine, takes it cheerfully, bravely. To play the game steadily is a merit, whether the game be a straight one or crooked. A thoroughbred, even though bad, has more of our respect than the craven who cleaves to the proprieties solely from fear to violate them. It has well been said: "The mistakes which make us men are better than the accuracies that keep us children."

Yes, he went an' stole our steers, So, of course, he had to die; I ain't sheddin' any tears, But, when I cash in—say, I Want to take it like that guy— Laughin', jokin', with the rest, Not a whimper, not a cry, Standin' up to meet the test Till we swung him clear an' high, With his face turned toward the west!

Here's the way it looks to me; Cattle thief's no thing to be, But if you take up that trade, Be the best one ever made; If you've got a thing to do Do it strong an' SEE IT THROUGH!

That was him! He played the game, Took his chances, bet his hand, When at last the showdown came An' he lost, he kept his sand; Didn't weep an' didn't pray, Didn't waver er repent, Simply tossed his cards away, Knowin' well just what it meant. Never claimed the deck was stacked, Never called the game a snide, Acted like a man should act, Took his medicine—an' died!

So I say it here again, What I think is true of men; They should try to do what's right, Fair an' square an' clean an' white, But, whatever is their line, Bad er good er foul er fine, Let 'em go the Limit, play Like a plunger, that's the way!

Berton Braley.

From "Songs of the Workaday World."



RESOLVE

There are some things we should all resolve to do. What are they? Any one may make a list for himself. It would be interesting to compare it with the one here given by the poet.

To keep my health! To do my work! To live! To see to it I grow and gain and give! Never to look behind me for an hour! To wait in weakness, and to walk in power; But always fronting onward to the light, Always and always facing towards the right. Robbed, starved, defeated, fallen, wide astray— On, with what strength I have! Back to the way!

Charlotte Perkins Gilman.

From "In This Our World."



WHEN NATURE WANTS A MAN

Only melting and hammering can shape and temper steel for fine use. Only struggle and suffering can give a man the qualities that enable him to render large service to humanity. Lincoln was born in a log cabin. He split rails, and conned a few books by the firelight in the evening. He became a backwoods lawyer with apparently no advantages or encouraging prospects. But all the while he had his visions, which ever became nobler; and the adversities he knew but gave him the deeper sympathy for others and the wider and steadier outlook on human problems. Thus when the supreme need arose, Lincoln was ready—harsh-visaged nature had done its work of moulding and preparing a man.

When Nature wants to drill a man And thrill a man, And skill a man, When Nature wants to mould a man To play the noblest part; When she yearns with all her heart To create so great and bold a man That all the world shall praise— Watch her method, watch her ways! How she ruthlessly perfects Whom she royally elects; How she hammers him and hurts him And with mighty blows converts him Into trial shapes of clay which only Nature understands— While his tortured heart is crying and he lifts beseeching hands!— How she bends, but never breaks, When his good she undertakes.... How she uses whom she chooses And with every purpose fuses him, By every art induces him To try his splendor out— Nature knows what she's about.

When Nature wants to take a man And shake a man And wake a man; When Nature wants to make a man To do the Future's will; When she tries with all her skill And she yearns with all her soul To create him large and whole.... With what cunning she prepares him! How she goads and never spares him, How she whets him and she frets him And in poverty begets him.... How she often disappoints Whom she sacredly anoints, With what wisdom she will hide him, Never minding what betide him Though his genius sob with slighting and his pride may not forget! Bids him struggle harder yet. Makes him lonely So that only God's high messages shall reach him So that she may surely teach him What the Hierarchy planned. Though he may not understand Gives him passions to command— How remorselessly she spurs him, With terrific ardor stirs him When she poignantly prefers him!

When Nature wants to name a man And fame a man And tame a man; When Nature wants to shame a man To do his heavenly best.... When she tries the highest test That her reckoning may bring— When she wants a god or king!— How she reins him and restrains him So his body scarce contains him While she fires him And inspires him! Keeps him yearning, ever burning for a tantalising goal— Lures and lacerates his soul. Sets a challenge for his spirit, Draws it higher when he's near it— Makes a jungle, that he clear it; Makes a desert, that he fear it And subdue it if he can— So doth Nature make a man. Then, to test his spirit's wrath Hurls a mountain in his path— Puts a bitter choice before him And relentless stands o'er him. "Climb, or perish!" so she says.... Watch her purpose, watch her ways!

Nature's plan is wondrous kind Could we understand her mind ... Fools are they who call her blind. When his feet are torn and bleeding Yet his spirit mounts unheeding, All his higher powers speeding Blazing newer paths and fine; When the force that is divine Leaps to challenge every failure and his ardor still is sweet And love and hope are burning in the presence of defeat.... Lo, the crisis! Lo, the shout That must call the leader out. When the people need salvation Doth he come to lead the nation.... Then doth Nature show her plan When the world has found—a man!

Angela Morgan.

From "Forward, March!"



ORDER AND THE BEES

(FROM "HENRY V.")

We often wish that we might do some other man's work, occupy his social or political station. But such an interchange is not easy. The world is complex, and its adjustments have come from long years of experience. Each man does well to perform the tasks for which nature and training have fitted him. And instead of feeling envy toward other people, we should rejoice that all labor, however diverse, is to one great end—it makes life richer and fuller.

Therefore doth heaven divide The state of man in divers functions, Setting endeavor in continual motion; To which is fixed, as an aim or butt, Obedience: for so work the honey-bees, Creatures that by a rule in nature teach The act of order to a peopled kingdom. They have a king and officers of sorts; Where some, like magistrates, correct at home, Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad, Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings, Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds; Which pillage they with merry march bring home To the tent-royal of their emperor: Who, busied in his majesty, surveys The singing masons building roofs of gold, The civil citizens kneading up the honey, The poor mechanic porters crowding in Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate, The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum, Delivering o'er to executors pale The lazy yawning drone. I this infer, That many things, having full reference To one consent, may work contrariously.

William Shakespeare.



SELF-DEPENDENCE

One star does not ask another to adore it or amuse it; Mt. Shasta, though it towers for thousands of feet above its neighbors, does not repine that it is alone or that the adjacent peaks see much that it misses under the clouds. Nature does not trouble itself about what the rest of nature is doing. But man constantly worries about other men—what they think of him, do to him, fail to emulate in him, have or secure in comparison with him. He lacks nature's inward quietude. Calmness and peace come by being self-contained.

Weary of myself, and sick of asking What I am, and what I ought to be, At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea.

And a look of passionate desire O'er the sea and to the stars I send: "Ye who from my childhood up have calmed me, Calm me, ah, compose me to the end!

"Ah, once more," I cried, "ye stars, ye waters, On my heart your mighty charm renew; Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you, Feel my soul becoming vast like you!"

From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven, Over the lit sea's unquiet way, In the rustling night-air came the answer: "Wouldst thou BE as these are? LIVE as they.

"Unaffrighted by the silence round them, Undistracted by the sights they see, These demand not that the things without them Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.

"And with joy the stars perform their shining, And the sea its long, moon-silver'd roll; For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting All the fever of some differing soul.

"Bounded by themselves, and unregardful In what state God's other works may be, In their own tasks all their powers pouring, These attain the mighty life you see."

O air-born voice! long since, severely clear, A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear: "Resolve to be thyself; and know that he Who finds himself, loses his misery!"

Matthew Arnold.



A LITTLE PRAYER

We should strive to bring what happiness we can to others. More still, we should strive to bring them no unhappiness. When we come to die, it is, as George Eliot once said, not our kindness or our patience or our generosity that we shall regret, but our intolerance and our harshness.

That I may not in blindness grope, But that I may with vision clear Know when to speak a word of hope Or add a little wholesome cheer.

That tempered winds may softly blow Where little children, thinly clad, Sit dreaming, when the flame is low, Of comforts they have never had.

That through the year which lies ahead No heart shall ache, no cheek be wet, For any word that I have said Or profit I have tried to get.

S.E. Kiser.



A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT

It is said that once at a laird's house Burns was placed at a second table, and that this rankled in his breast and caused him to write his poem on equality. He insists that rank, wealth, and external distinctions are merely the stamp on the guinea; the man is the gold itself. Snobbishness he abhors; poverty he confesses to without hanging his head in the least; the pith of sense and the pride of worth he declares superior to any dignity thrust upon a person from the outside. In a final, prophetic mood he looks forward to the time when a democracy of square dealing shall prevail, praise shall be reserved for merit, and men the world over shall be to each other as brothers. In line 8 gowd=gold; 9, hamely=homely, commonplace; 11, gie=give; 15, sae=so; 17, birkie=fellow; 20, cuif=simpleton; 25, mak=make; 27, aboon=above; 28, mauna=must not; fa'=acclaim; 36, gree=prize.

Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that? The coward-slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a' that! For a' that, and a' that, Our toils obscure, and a' that; The rank is but the guinea stamp; The man's the gowd for a' that.

What tho' on hamely fare we dine, Wear hodden-gray, and a' that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man's a man for a' that. For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a' that; The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, Is King o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; Tho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a cuif for a' that: For a' that, and a' that. His riband, star, and a' that, The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that; But an honest man's aboon his might, Guid faith he mauna fa' that! For a' that, and a' that, Their dignities, and a' that, The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may, As come it will for a' that; That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree, and a' that. For a' that and a' that, It's coming yet, for a' that, That man to man the warld o'er Shall brothers be for a' that.

Robert Burns.



LIFE AND DEATH

Life! I know not what thou art, But know that thou and I must part; And when, or how, or where we met I own to me a secret yet.

Life! We've been long together, Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear; Perhaps will cost a sigh, a tear; Then steal away, give little warning, Choose thine own time; Say not "Good Night"—but in some brighter clime, Bid me "Good Morning!"

Anna Barbauld.



LIFE AND DEATH

Many a man would die for wife and children, for faith, for country. But would he live for them? That, often, is the more heroic course—and the more sensible. A rich man was hiring a driver for his carriage. He asked each applicant how close he could drive to a precipice without toppling over. "One foot," "Six inches," "Three inches," ran the replies. But an Irishman declared, "Faith, and I'd keep as far away from the place as I could." "Consider yourself employed," was the rich man's comment.

So he died for his faith. That is fine— More than most of us do. But stay, can you add to that line That he lived for it, too?

In death he bore witness at last As a martyr to truth. Did his life do the same in the past From the days of his youth?

It is easy to die. Men have died For a wish or a whim— From bravado or passion or pride. Was it harder for him?

But to live: every day to live out All the truth that he dreamt, While his friends met his conduct with doubt, And the world with contempt—

Was it thus that he plodded ahead, Never turning aside? Then we'll talk of the life that he led— Never mind how he died.

Ernest H. Crosby

From "Swords and Ploughshares."



ON BEING READY

At nightfall after bloody Antietam Lee's army, outnumbered and exhausted, lay with the Potomac at its back. So serious was the situation that all the subordinate officers advised retreat. But Lee, though too maimed to attack, would not leave the field save of his own volition. "If McClellan wants a battle," he declared, "he can have it." McClellan hesitated, and through the whole of the next day kept his great army idle. The effect upon the morale of the two forces, and the two governments, can be imagined.

The man who is there with the wallop and punch The one who is trained to the minute, May well be around when the trouble begins, But you seldom will find he is in it; For they let him alone when they know he is there For any set part in the ramble, To pick out the one who is shrinking and soft And not quite attuned to the scramble.

The one who is fixed for whatever they start Is rarely expected to prove it; They pass him along for the next shot in sight Where they take a full wind-up and groove it; For who wants to pick on a bulldog or such Where a quivering poodle is handy, When he knows he can win with a kick or a brick With no further trouble to bandy?

Grantland Rice.

From "The Sportlight."



TWO AT A FIRESIDE

I built a chimney for a comrade old, I did the service not for hope or hire— And then I traveled on in winter's cold, Yet all the day I glowed before the fire.

Edwin Markham.

From "The Man with the Hoe, and Other Poems."



TO-DAY

We often lose the happiness of to-day by brooding over the sorrows of yesterday or fearing the troubles of to-morrow. This is exceedingly foolish. There is always some pleasure at hand; seize it, and at no time will you be without pleasure. You cannot change the past, but your spirit at this moment will in some measure shape your future. Live life, therefore, in the present tense; do not miss the joys of to-day.

Sure, this world is full of trouble— I ain't said it ain't. Lord! I've had enough, an' double, Reason for complaint. Rain an' storm have come to fret me, Skies were often gray; Thorns an' brambles have beset me On the road—but, say, Ain't it fine to-day?

What's the use of always weepin', Makin' trouble last? What's the use of always keepin' Thinkin' of the past? Each must have his tribulation, Water with his wine. Life it ain't no celebration. Trouble? I've had mine— But to-day is fine.

It's to-day that I am livin', Not a month ago, Havin', losin', takin', givin', As time wills it so. Yesterday a cloud of sorrow Fell across the way; It may rain again to-morrow, It may rain—but, say, Ain't it fine to-day!

Douglas Malloch.



THE ARROW AND THE SONG

We can calculate with fair accuracy the number of miles an automobile will go in an hour. We can gauge pretty closely the amount of merchandise a given sum of money will buy. But a good deed or a kind impulse is not measurable. Their influence works in devious ways and lives on when perhaps we can see them no more.

I shout an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.



THE INNER LIGHT

"Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just, And he but naked, though locked up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted,"

says Shakespeare. But not only does a clear conscience give power; it also gives light. With it we could sit at the center of the earth and yet enjoy the sunshine. Without it we live in a rayless prison.

He that has light within his own clear breast May sit i' the center, and enjoy bright day: But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts Benighted walks under the midday sun; Himself is his own dungeon.

John Milton.



THE THINGS THAT HAVEN'T BEEN DONE BEFORE

It is said that if you hold a stick in front of the foremost sheep in a flock that files down a trail in the mountains, he will jump it—and that every sheep thereafter will jump when he reaches the spot, even if the stick be removed. So are many people mere unthinking imitators, blind to facts and opportunities about them. Kentucky could not be lived in by the white race till Daniel Boone built his cabin there. The air was not part of the domain of humanity till the Wright brothers made themselves birdmen.

The things that haven't been done before, Those are the things to try; Columbus dreamed of an unknown shore At the rim of the far-flung sky, And his heart was bold and his faith was strong As he ventured in dangers new, And he paid no heed to the jeering throng Or the fears of the doubting crew.

The many will follow the beaten track With guideposts on the way, They live and have lived for ages back With a chart for every day. Someone has told them it's safe to go On the road he has traveled o'er, And all that they ever strive to know Are the things that were known before.

A few strike out, without map or chart, Where never a man has been, From the beaten paths they draw apart To see what no man has seen. There are deeds they hunger alone to do; Though battered and bruised and sore, They blaze the path for the many, who Do nothing not done before.

The things that haven't been done before Are the tasks worth while to-day; Are you one of the flock that follows, or Are you one that shall lead the way? Are you one of the timid souls that quail At the jeers of a doubting crew, Or dare you, whether you win or fail, Strike out for a goal that's new?

Edgar A. Guest.

From "A Heap o' Livin'."



THE HAS-BEENS

I read the papers every day, and oft encounter tales which show there's hope for every jay who in life's battle fails. I've just been reading of a gent who joined the has-been ranks, at fifty years without a cent, or credit at the banks. But undismayed he buckled down, refusing to be beat, and captured fortune and renown; he's now on Easy Street. Men say that fellows down and out ne'er leave the rocky track, but facts will show, beyond a doubt, that has-beens do come back. I know, for I who write this rhyme, when forty-odd years old, was down and out, without a dime, my whiskers full of mold. By black disaster I was trounced until it jarred my spine; I was a failure so pronounced I didn't need a sign. And after I had soaked my coat, I said (at forty-three), "I'll see if I can catch the goat that has escaped from me." I labored hard; I strained my dome, to do my daily grind, until in triumph I came home, my billy-goat behind. And any man who still has health may with the winners stack, and have a chance at fame and wealth—for has-beens do come back.

Walt Mason.

From "Walt Mason, His Book."



WISHING

Horace Greeley said that no one need fear the editor who indulged in diatribes against the prevalence of polygamy in Utah, but that malefactors had better look out when an editor took up his pen against abuses in his own city. We all tend to begin our reforms too far away from home. The man who wishes improvement strongly enough to set to work on himself is the man who will obtain results.

Do you wish the world were better? Let me tell you what to do. Set a watch upon your actions, Keep them always straight and true. Rid your mind of selfish motives, Let your thoughts be clean and high. You can make a little Eden Of the sphere you occupy.

Do you wish the world were wiser? Well, suppose you make a start, By accumulating wisdom In the scrapbook of your heart; Do not waste one page on folly; Live to learn, and learn to live. If you want to give men knowledge You must get it, ere you give.

Do you wish the world were happy? Then remember day by day Just to scatter seeds of kindness As you pass along the way, For the pleasures of the many May be ofttimes traced to one. As the hand that plants an acorn Shelters armies from the sun.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

From "Poems of Power."



AWARENESS

A man must keep a keen sense of the drift and significance of what he is engaged in if he is to make much headway. Yet many human beings are so sunk in the routine of their work that they fail to realize what it is all for. A man who was tapping with a hammer the wheels of a railroad train remarked that he had been at the job for twenty-seven years. "What do you do when a wheel doesn't sound right?" a passenger inquired. The man was taken aback. "I never found one that sounded that way," said he.

God—let me be aware. Let me not stumble blindly down the ways, Just getting somehow safely through the days, Not even groping for another hand, Not even wondering why it all was planned, Eyes to the ground unseeking for the light, Soul never aching for a wild-winged flight, Please, keep me eager just to do my share. God—let me be aware.

God—let me be aware. Stab my soul fiercely with others' pain, Let me walk seeing horror and stain. Let my hands, groping, find other hands. Give me the heart that divines, understands. Give me the courage, wounded, to fight. Flood me with knowledge, drench me in light. Please—keep me eager just to do my share. God—let me be aware.

Miriam Teichner.



ONE OF THESE DAYS

The worst fault in a hound is to run counter—to follow the trail backward, not forward. Is the fault less when men are guilty of it? Behind us is much that we have found to be faithless, cruel, or unpleasant. Why go back to that? Why not go forward to the things we really desire?

Say! Let's forget it! Let's put it aside! Life is so large and the world is so wide. Days are so short and there's so much to do, What if it was false—there's plenty that's true. Say! Let's forget it! Let's brush it away Now and forever, so what do you say? All of the bitter words said may be praise One of these days.

Say! Let's forget it! Let's wipe off the slate, Find something better to cherish than hate. There's so much good in the world that we've had, Let's strike a balance and cross off the bad. Say! Let's forgive it, whatever it be, Let's not be slaves when we ought to be free. We shall be walking in sunshiny ways One of these days.

Say! Let's not mind it! Let's smile it away, Bring not a withered rose from yesterday; Flowers are so fresh from the wayside and wood, Sorrows are blessings but half understood. Say! Let's not mind it, however it seems, Hope is so sweet and holds so many dreams; All of the sere fields with blossoms shall blaze One of these days.

Say! Let's not take it so sorely to heart! Hates may be friendships just drifted apart, Failure be genius not quite understood, Say! Let's get closer to somebody's side, See what his dreams are and learn how he tried, See if our scoldings won't give way to praise One of these days.

Say! Let's not wither! Let's branch out and rise Out of the byways and nearer the skies. Let's spread some shade that's refreshing and deep Where some tired traveler may lie down and sleep. Say! Let's not tarry! Let's do it right now; So much to do if we just find out how! We may not be here to help folks or praise One of these days.

James W. Foley.

From "The Voices of Song."



GOD

We often think people shallow, think them incapable of anything serious or profound, because their work is humdrum and their speech trivial. Such a judgment is unfair, since that part of our own life which shows itself to others is superficial likewise, though we are conscious that within us is much that it does not reveal.

I think about God. Yet I talk of small matters. Now isn't it odd How my idle tongue chatters! Of quarrelsome neighbors, Fine weather and rain, Indifferent labors, Indifferent pain, Some trivial style Fashion shifts with a nod. And yet all the while I am thinking of God.

Gamaliel Bradford.

From "Shadow Verses."



MY TRIUMPH

The poet, looking back upon the hopes he has cherished, perceives that he has fallen far short of achieving them. The songs he has sung are less sweet than those he has dreamed of singing; the wishes he has wrought into facts are less noble than those that are yet unfulfilled. But he looks forward to the time when all that he desires for humankind shall yet come to pass. The praise will not be his; it will belong to others. Still, he does not envy those who are destined to succeed where he failed. Rather does he rejoice that through them his hopes for the race will be realized. And he is happy that by longing for just such a triumph he shares in it—he makes it his triumph.

Let the thick curtain fall; I better know than all How little I have gained, How vast the unattained.

Not by the page word-painted Let life be banned or sainted: Deeper than written scroll The colors of the soul.

Sweeter than any sung My songs that found no tongue Nobler than any fact My wish that failed to act.

Others shall sing the song, Others shall right the wrong,— Finish what I begin, And all I fail of win.

What matter, I or they? Mine or another's day, So the right word be said And life the sweeter made?

Hail to the coming singers! Hail to the brave light-bringers! Forward I reach and share All that they sing and dare.

The airs of heaven blow o'er me; A glory shines before me Of what mankind shall be,— Pure, generous, brave, and free.

A dream of man and woman Diviner but still human, Solving the riddle old, Shaping the Age of Gold!

The love of God and neighbor; An equal-handed labor; The richer life, where beauty Walks hand in hand with duty.

Ring, bells in unreared steeples, The joy of unborn peoples! Sound, trumpets far off blown, Your triumph is my own.

Parcel and part of all, I keep the festival, Fore-reach the good to be, And share the victory.

I feel the earth move sunward, I join the great march onward, And take, by faith, while living, My freehold of thanksgiving.

John Green leaf Whittier.



TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON

In the great Civil War in England between the Puritans and Charles the First the author of this poem sacrificed everything in the royal cause. That cause was defeated and Lovelace was imprisoned. In these stanzas he makes the most of his gloomy situation and sings the joys of various kinds of freedom. First is the freedom brought by love, when his sweetheart speaks to him through the grate of the dungeon. Second is the freedom brought by the recollection of good fellowship, when tried and true comrades took their wine straight—"with no allaying Thames." Third is the freedom brought by remembrance of the king for whom he was suffering. Finally comes the passionate and heroic assertion that though the body of a man may be confined, nevertheless his spirit can remain free and chainless.

When Love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the grates; When I lie tangled in her hair And fetter'd to her eye, The Gods that wanton in the air Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses bound, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free— Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty.

When (like committed linnets) I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty And glories of my King; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage; If I have freedom in my love And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty.

Richard Lovelace.



GRIEF

Shakespeare says: "I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching." This is especially true regarding grief or affliction. "Man was born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward," but we bid other people bear their sorrows manfully; we should therefore bear ours with equal courage.

Upon this trouble shall I whet my life As 'twere a dulling knife; Bade I my friend be brave? I shall still braver be. No man shall say of me, "Others he saved, himself he cannot save." But swift and fair As the Primeval word that smote the night— "Let there be light!" Courage shall leap from me, a gallant sword To rout the enemy and all his horde, Cleaving a kingly pathway through despair.

Angela Morgan.

From "Forward, March!"



THE RECTIFYING YEARS

Time brings the deeper understanding that clears up our misconceptions; it shows us the error of our hates; it dispels our worries and our fears; it allays the grief that seemed too poignant to be borne.

Yes, things are more or less amiss; To-day it's that, to-morrow this; Yet with so much that's out of whack, Life does not wholly jump the track Because, since matters move along, No one thing's always staying wrong. So heed not failures, losses, fears, But trust the rectifying years.

What we shall have's not what we've got; Our pains don't linger in one spot— They skip about; the seesaw's end That's up will mighty soon descend; You've looked at bacon? Life's like that— A streak of lean, a streak of fat. Change, like a sky that clouds, that clears, Hangs o'er the rectifying years.

Uneven things not leveled down Are somehow simply got aroun'; The sting is taken from offence; The evil has its recompense; The broken heart is knit again; The baffled longing knows not pain; Wrong fades and trouble disappears Before the rectifying years.

Then envy, hate towards man or class Should from your sinful nature pass. Though others hold a higher place Or have more power or wealth or grace, The best of them, be sure, cannot Escape the common human lot; So many smiles, so many tears Come with the rectifying years.

St. Clair Adams.



TO THOSE WHO FAIL

We too often praise the man who wins just because he wins; the plaudits and laurels of victory are the unthinking crowd's means of estimating success. But the vanquished may have fought more nobly than the victor; he may have done his best against hopeless odds. As Addison makes Cato say,

"'Tis not in mortals to command success, But we'll do more, Sempronius,—we'll deserve it."

"All honor to him who shall win the prize," The world has cried for a thousand years; But to him who tries, and who fails and dies, I give great honor and glory and tears;

Give glory and honor and pitiful tears To all who fail in their deeds sublime; Their ghosts are many in the van of years, They were born with Time, in advance of Time.

Oh, great is the hero who wins a name, But greater many and many a time Some pale-faced fellow who dies in shame, And lets God finish the thoughts sublime.

And great is the man with a sword undrawn, And good is the man who refrains from wine; But the man who fails and yet still fights on, Lo, he is the twin-born brother of mine.

Joaquin Miller.

From "Joaquin Miller's Complete Poems."



HELPING' OUT

"I always look out for Number One," was the favorite remark of a man who thought he had found the great rule to success, but he had only stated his own doctrine of selfishness, and his life was never very successful. A man must be big to succeed, and selfishness is always cramping and narrow.

Da's a lot of folks what preach all day An' always pointing' out de way, Dey say dat prayin' all de time An' keepin' yo' heart all full of rhyme Will lead yo' soul to heights above Whah angels coo like a turtledove. But I's des lookin' round, dat's me— I's trustin' lots in what I see; It 'pears to me da's lots to do Befo' we pass dat heavenly blue. I believes in prayin', preachin' about, But believe a lot mo' in helpin' out.

I believes in 'ligin, it's mighty sweet, But de kind dat gits in yo' hands and feet An' makes you work when dey ain't no praise, Nuthin' but a heart dat's all a-blaze. If it rains or shines, dey's des de same— Say, bless you, honey, Sunshine's dey name; Dey don't fuss round 'bout how much pay But climbs up de trail, helpin' all de way. De load is often twice der size, And smilin' is der biggest prize. Dey never gits dis awful gout 'Cause dey's busy all de time in helpin' out.

We had an old mule on Massa's place, As fo' looks he'd certainly lose de race; But der wa'n't a horse fo' miles around Could pull mo' load or plow mo' ground. An' when dat donkey brayed his best, He seemed to know he'd licked de rest. Dat bray of his was strong as wool— It always come at de hardest pull. We need mo' mules with brains on guard Dat knos de game of pullin' hard, An' a heart dat's tender, true and stout, Dat believes all day in helpin' out.

We's all des human, des common clay, Des needs a little help to make work play. I'se read a lot of philosophy day an' night, An' worked around a heap wid de law of right. I'se seen de high an' mighty come an' go, I'se seen de simple spirit come from below; An' I'se seen a lot of principle most folks miss— I'se not a-stretchin' truth when I say dis: "Keep a-smilin' an' a-lovin' an a-doin' all yo' can, Fo' yo' loses all yo' trouble when yo' help yo' fellow man; An' you gits on best yo'self, an' of this dey ain't no doubt, When yo' practise de art of always helpin' out."

William Judson Kibby.



OPENING PARADISE

We appreciate even the common things of life if we are denied them.

See the wretch, that long has tost On the thorny bed of Pain, At length repair his vigor lost, And breathe and walk again: The meanest flow'r'et of the vale, The simplest note that swells the gale, The common Sun, the air, and skies, To him are opening Paradise.

Thomas Gray.



TO THE MEN WHO LOSE

When Captain Scott's ill-fated band, after reaching the South Pole, was struggling through the cold and storms back towards safety, the strength of Evans, one of the men, became exhausted. He had done his best—vainly. Now he did not wish to imperil his companions, already sorely tried. At a halting-place, therefore, he left them and, staggering out into a blizzard, perished alone. It was a failure, yes; but was it not also magnificent success?

Here's to the men who lose! What though their work be e'er so nobly planned, And watched with zealous care, No glorious halo crowns their efforts grand, Contempt is failure's share.

Here's to the men who lose! If triumph's easy smile our struggles greet, Courage is easy then; The king is he who, after fierce defeat, Can up and fight again.

Here's to the men who lose! The ready plaudits of a fawning world Ring sweet in victor's ears; The vanquished's banners never are unfurled— For them there sound no cheers.

Here's to the men who lose! The touchstone of true worth is not success; There is a higher test— Though fate may darkly frown, onward to press, And bravely do one's best.

Here's to the men who lose! It is the vanquished's praises that I sing, And this is the toast I choose: "A hard-fought failure is a noble thing; Here's to the men who lose!"

Anonymous.



IT MAY BE

Many, many are the human struggles in which we can lend no aid. But if we cannot help, at least we need not hinder.

It may be that you cannot stay To lend a friendly hand to him Who stumbles on the slippery way, Pressed by conditions hard and grim; It may be that you dare not heed His call for help, because you lack The strength to lift him, but you need Not push him back.

It may be that he has not won The right to hope for your regard; He may in folly have begun The course that he has found so hard; It may be that your fingers bleed, That Fortune turns a bitter frown Upon your efforts, but you need Not kick him down.

S.E. Kiser.



LIFE

In life is necessarily much monotony, sameness. But our triumph may lie in putting richness and meaning into routine that apparently lacks them.

Forenoon and afternoon and night,—Forenoon, And afternoon, and night,—Forenoon, and—what! The empty song repeats itself. No more? Yea, that is Life: make this forenoon sublime, This afternoon a psalm, this night a prayer, And Time is conquered, and thy crown is won.

Edward Rowland Sill.

From "Poems."



THE GRUMPY GUY

When students came, full of ambition, to the great scientist Agassiz, he gave each a fish and told him to find out what he could about it. They went to work and in a day or two were ready for their report. But Agassiz didn't come round. To kill time they went to work again, observed, dissected, conjectured, and when at the end of a fortnight Agassiz finally appeared, they felt that their knowledge was really exhaustive. The master's brief comment was that they had made a fair beginning, and again he left. They then fell to in earnest and after weeks and months of investigation declared that a fish was the most fascinating of studies. If our interest in life fails, it is not from material to work on. No two leaves are alike, not two human beings are alike, and if we are discerning, the attraction of any one of them is infinite.

The Grumpy Guy was feeling blue; the Grumpy Guy was glum; The Grumpy Guy with baleful eye took Misery for a chum. He hailed misfortunes as his pals, and murmured, "Let 'em come!"

"Oh, what's the blooming use?" he yelped, his face an angry red, "When everything's been thought before and everything's been said? And what's a Grumpy Guy to do except to go to bed?

"And where's the joy the poets sing, the merriment and fun? How can one start a thing that's new when everything's begun?— When everything's been planned before and everything's been done?—

"When everything's been dreamed before and everything's been sought? When everything that ever ran has, so to speak, been caught?— When every game's been played before and every battle fought?"

I started him at solitaire, a fooling, piffling game. He played it ninety-seven hours and failed to find it tame. In all the times he dealt the cards no two games were the same.

He never tumbled to its tricks nor mastered all its curves. He grunted, "Well, this takes the cake, the pickles and preserves! Its infinite variety is getting on my nerves."

"Its infinite variety!" I scoffed. "Just fifty-two Poor trifling bits of pasteboard!—their combinations few Compared to what there is in man!—the poorest!—even you!

"Variety! You'll never find in forty-seven decks One tenth of the variety found in the gentler sex. Card combinations are but frills to hang around their necks.

"The sun won't rise to-morrow as it came to us to-day, 'Twill be older, we'll be older, and to Time this debt we pay. For nothing can repeat itself, for nothing knows the way."

Then the Grumpy Guy was silent as a miser hoarding pelf. He knew 'twas time to put his grouch away upon the shelf. And so he did.—You see, I was just talking to myself!

Griffith Alexander.

From "The Pittsburg Dispatch."



THE FIGHTER

If life were all easy, we should degenerate into weaklings—into human mush. It is the fighting spirit that makes us strong. Nor do any of us lack for a chance to exercise this spirit. Struggle is everywhere; as Kearny said at Fair Oaks, "There is lovely fighting along the whole line."

I fight a battle every day Against discouragement and fear; Some foe stands always in my way, The path ahead is never clear! I must forever be on guard Against the doubts that skulk along; I get ahead by fighting hard, But fighting keeps my spirit strong.

I hear the croakings of Despair, The dark predictions of the weak; I find myself pursued by Care, No matter what the end I seek; My victories are small and few, It matters not how hard I strive; Each day the fight begins anew, But fighting keeps my hopes alive.

My dreams are spoiled by circumstance, My plans are wrecked by Fate or Luck; Some hour, perhaps, will bring my chance, But that great hour has never struck; My progress has been slow and hard, I've had to climb and crawl and swim, Fighting for every stubborn yard, But I have kept in fighting trim.

I have to fight my doubts away, And be on guard against my fears; The feeble croaking of Dismay Has been familiar through the years; My dearest plans keep going wrong, Events combine to thwart my will, But fighting keeps my spirit strong, And I am undefeated still!

S.E. Kiser.

From "The New York American."



TO YOUTH AFTER PAIN

Since pain is the lot of all, we cannot hope to escape it. Since only through pain can we come into true and helpful sympathy with men, we should not wish to escape it.

What if this year has given Grief that some year must bring, What if it hurt your joyous youth, Crippled your laughter's wing? You always knew it was coming, Coming to all, to you, They always said there was suffering— Now it is done, come through.

Even if you have blundered, Even if you have sinned, Still is the steadfast arch of the sky And the healing veil of the wind.... And after only a little, A little of hurt and pain, You shall have the web of your own old dreams Wrapping your heart again.

Only your heart can pity Now, where it laughed and passed, Now you can bend to comfort men, One with them all at last, You shall have back your laughter, You shall have back your song, Only the world is your brother now, Only your soul is strong!

Margaret Widdemer.

From "The Old Road to Paradise."



CAN'T

A great, achieving soul will not clog itself with a cowardly thought or a cowardly watchword. Cardinal Richelieu in Bulwer-Lytton's play declares:

"In the lexicon of youth, which fate reserves For a bright manhood, there is no such word As 'fail.'"

"Impossible," Napoleon is quoted as saying, "is a word found only in the dictionary of fools."

Can't is the worst word that's written or spoken; Doing more harm here than slander and lies; On it is many a strong spirit broken, And with it many a good purpose dies. It springs from the lips of the thoughtless each morning And robs us of courage we need through the day: It rings in our ears like a timely-sent warning And laughs when we falter and fall by the way.

Can't is the father of feeble endeavor, The parent of terror and half-hearted work; It weakens the efforts of artisans clever, And makes of the toiler an indolent shirk. It poisons the soul of the man with a vision, It stifles in infancy many a plan; It greets honest toiling with open derision And mocks at the hopes and the dreams of a man.

Can't is a word none should speak without blushing; To utter it should be a symbol of shame; Ambition and courage it daily is crushing; It blights a man's purpose and shortens his aim. Despise it with all of your hatred of error; Refuse it the lodgment it seeks in your brain; Arm against it as a creature of terror, And all that you dream of you some day shall gain.

Can't is the word that is foe to ambition, An enemy ambushed to shatter your will; Its prey is forever the man with a mission And bows but to courage and patience and skill. Hate it, with hatred that's deep and undying, For once it is welcomed 'twill break any man; Whatever the goal you are seeking, keep trying And answer this demon by saying: "I can."

Edgar A. Guest.

From "A Heap o' Livin'."



THE STRUGGLE

We all dream of being St. Georges and fighting dragons amid glamor and glory and the applause of the world. But our real fights are mostly commonplace, routine battles, where no great victory is ours at the end of the day. To persist in them requires quiet strength and unfaltering courage.

Did you ever want to take your two bare hands, And choke out of the world your big success? Beat, torn fists bleeding, pathways rugged, grand, By sheer brute strength and bigness, nothing less? So at the last, triumphant, battered, strong, You might gaze down on what you choked and beat, And say, "Ah, world, you've wrought to do me wrong; And thus have I accepted my defeat."

Have you ever dreamed of virile deeds, and vast, And then come back from dreams with wobbly knees, To find your way (the braver vision past), By picking meekly at typewriter keys; By bending o'er a ledger, day by day, By some machine-like drudging? No great woe To grapple with. Slow, painful is the way, And still, the bravest fight and conquer so.

Miriam Teichner.



HOLD FAST

A football coach who told his players that their rivals were too strong for them would be seeking a new position the next year. If the opposing team is formidable, he says so; if his men have their work cut out for them, he admits it; but he mentions these things as incitements to effort. Merely saying of victory that it can be won is among the surest ways of winning it.

When you're nearly drowned in trouble, and the world is dark as ink; When you feel yourself a-sinking 'neath the strain, And you think, "I've got to holler 'Help!'" just take another breath And pretend you've lost your voice—and can't complain! (That's the idea!) Pretend you've lost your voice and can't complain!

When the future glowers at you like a threatening thunder cloud, Just grit your teeth and bend your head and say: "It's dark and disagreeable and I can't help feeling blue, But there's coming sure as fate a brighter day!" (Say it slowly!) "But there's coming sure as fate, a brighter day!"

You have bluffed your way through ticklish situations; that I know. You are looking back on troubles past and gone; Now, turn the tables, and as you have fought and won before, Just BLUFF YOURSELF to keep on holding on! (Try it once.) Just bluff YOURSELF to keep on—holding on.

Don't worry if the roseate hues of life are faded out, Bend low before the storm and wait awhile. The pendulum is bound to swing again and you will find That you have not forgotten how to smile. (That's the truth!) That you have not forgotten how to smile.

Everard Jack Appleton.

From "The Quiet Courage."



WILL

Warren Hastings resolved in his boyhood that he would be the owner of the estate known as Daylesford. This was the one great purpose that unified his varied and far-reaching activities. Admire him or not, we must at least praise his pluck in holding to his purpose—a purpose he ultimately attained.

You will be what you will to be; Let failure find its false content In that poor word "environment," But spirit scorns it, and is free.

It masters time, it conquers space, It cowes that boastful trickster Chance, And bids the tyrant Circumstance Uncrown and fill a servant's place.

The human Will, that force unseen, The offspring of a deathless Soul, Can hew the way to any goal, Though walls of granite intervene.

Be not impatient in delay, But wait as one who understands; When spirit rises and commands The gods are ready to obey.

The river seeking for the sea Confronts the dam and precipice, Yet knows it cannot fail or miss; You will be what you will to be!

Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

From "Poems of Power."



THE GAME

Lessing said that if God should come to him with truth in one hand and the never-ending pursuit of truth in the other, and should offer him his choice, he would humbly and reverently take the pursuit of truth. Perhaps it is best that finite beings should not attain infinite success. But however remote that for which they seek or strive, they may by their diligence and generosity make the very effort to secure it noble. In doing this they earn, as Pope tells us, a truer commendation than success itself could bring them. "Act well thy part; there all the honor lies."

Let's play it out—this little game called Life, Where we are listed for so brief a spell; Not just to win, amid the tumult rife, Or where acclaim and gay applauses swell; Nor just to conquer where some one must lose, Or reach the goal whatever be the cost; For there are other, better ways to choose, Though in the end the battle may be lost.

Let's play it out as if it were a sport Wherein the game is better than the goal, And never mind the detailed "score's" report Of errors made, if each with dauntless soul But stick it out until the day is done, Not wasting fairness for success or fame, So when the battle has been lost or won, The world at least can say: "He played the game."

Let's play it out—this little game called Work, Or War or Love or what part each may draw; Play like a man who scorns to quit or shirk Because the break may carry some deep flaw; Nor simply holding that the goal is all That keeps the player in the contest staying; But stick it out from curtain rise to fall, As if the game itself were worth the playing.

Grantland Rice.

From "The Sportlight."



COURAGE

The philosopher Kant held himself to his habits so precisely that people set their watches by him as he took his daily walk. We may be equally constant amid worldly vicissitudes, but only a man of true courage is.

'Tis the front towards life that matters most— The tone, the point of view, The constancy that in defeat Remains untouched and true;

For death in patriot fight may be Less gallant than a smile, And high endeavor, to the gods, Seems in itself worth while!

Florence Earle Coates.

From "Poems."



A GOOD NAME

We should respect the good name of other people, and should safeguard our own by a high sense of honor. At the close of the Civil War a representative of an insurance company offered Robert E. Lee the presidency of the firm at a salary of $50,000 a year. Lee replied that while he wished to earn his living, he doubted whether his services would be worth so large a sum. "We don't want your services," the man interrupted; "we want your name." "That," said Lee, quietly, "is not for sale." He accepted, instead, the presidency of a college at $1500 a year.

Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls: Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing; 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands; But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him, And makes me poor indeed.

William Shakespeare.



SWELLITIS

A certain employer of large numbers of men makes it a principle to praise none of them, not because they are undeserving, and not because he dislikes to commend, but because experience has taught him that usually the praise goes to the head of the recipient, both impairing his work and making it harder for others to associate with him. A good test of a man is his way of taking commendation. He may, even while grateful, be stirred to humility that he has not done better still, and may resolve to accomplish more. Or imitating the frog who wished to look like an ox, he may swell and swell until—figuratively speaking—he bursts.

Somebody said he'd done it well, And presto! his head began to swell; Bigger and bigger the poor thing grew— A wonder it didn't split in two. In size a balloon could scarcely match it; He needed a fishing-pole to scratch it;—- But six and a half was the size of his hat, And it rattled around on his head at that!

"Good work," somebody chanced to say, And his chest swelled big as a load of hay. About himself, like a rooster, he crowed; Of his wonderful work he bragged and blowed He marched around with a peacock strut; Gigantic to him was the figure he cut;— But he wore a very small-sized suit, And loosely it hung on him, to boot!

HE was the chap who made things hum! HE was the drumstick and the drum! HE was the shirt bosom and the starch! HE was the keystone in the arch! HE was the axis of the earth! Nothing existed before his birth! But when he was off from work a Nobody knew that he was away!

This is a fact that is sad to tell: It's the empty head that is bound to swell; It's the light-weight fellow who soars to the skies And bursts like a bubble before your eyes. A big man is humbled by honest praise, And tries to think of all the ways To improve his work and do it well;— But a little man starts of himself to yell!

Joseph Morris:



CARES

To those who are wearied, fretted, and worried there is no physician like nature. When our nerves are frazzled and our sleep is unrefreshing, we can find no better antidote to the clamorous grind and frenzy of the city than the stillness and solitude of hills, streams, and tranquil stars. That man lays up for himself resources of strength who now and then exchanges the ledger for green leaves, the factory for wild flowers, business for brook-croon and bird-song.

The little cares that fretted me, I lost them yesterday Among the fields above the sea, Among the winds at play; Among the lowing of the herds, The rustling of the trees, Among the singing of the birds, The humming of the bees.

The foolish fears of what may happen, I cast them all away Among the clover-scented grass, Among the new-mown hay; Among the husking of the corn Where drowsy poppies nod, Where ill thoughts die and good are born Out in the fields with God.

Elisabeth Barrett Browning.



FAITH

Any one who has ridden across the continent on a train must marvel at the faith and imagination of the engineers who constructed the road—the topographical advantages seized, the grades made easy of ascent, the curves and straight stretches planned, the tunnels so carefully calculated that workmen beginning on opposite sides of a mountain met in the middle—and all this visualized and thought out before the actual work was begun. Faith has such foresight, such courage, whether it toils actively or can merely bide its time.

The tree-top, high above the barren field, Rising beyond the night's gray folds of mist, Rests stirless where the upper air is sealed To perfect silence, by the faint moon kissed. But the low branches, drooping to the ground, Sway to and fro, as sways funereal plume, While from their restless depths low whispers sound: "We fear, we fear the darkness and the gloom; Dim forms beneath us pass and reappear, And mournful tongues are menacing us here."

Then from the topmost bough falls calm reply: "Hush, hush, I see the coming of the morn; Swiftly the silent night is passing by, And in her bosom rosy Dawn is borne. 'Tis but your own dim shadows that ye see, 'Tis but your own low moans that trouble ye."

So Life stands, with a twilight world around; Faith turned serenely to the steadfast sky, Still answering the heart that sweeps the ground Sobbing in fear, and tossing restlessly— "Hush, hush! The Dawn breaks o'er the Eastern sea, 'Tis but thine own dim shadow troubling thee."

Edward Rowland Sill.

From "Poems."



PLAYING THE GAME

We all like the good sport—the man who plays fair and courteously and with every ounce of his energy, even when the game is going against him.

Life is a game with a glorious prize, If we can only play it right. It is give and take, build and break, And often it ends in a fight; But he surely wins who honestly tries (Regardless of wealth or fame), He can never despair who plays it fair— How are you playing the game?

Do you wilt and whine, if you fail to win In the manner you think your due? Do you sneer at the man in case that he can And does, do better than you? Do you take your rebuffs with a knowing grin? Do you laugh tho' you pull up lame? Does your faith hold true when the whole world's blue? How are you playing the game?

Get into the thick of it—wade in, boys! Whatever your cherished goal; Brace up your will till your pulses thrill, And you dare—to your very soul! Do something more than make a noise; Let your purpose leap into flame As you plunge with a cry, "I shall do or die," Then you will be playing the game.

Anonymous.



WHAT DARK DAYS DO

A real man does not want all his barriers leveled. He of course welcomes easy tasks, but he welcomes hard ones also. The difficult or unpleasant thing puts him on his mettle, throws him on his own resources. It gives him something of

"The stern joy which warriors feel In foemen worthy of their steel."

Moreover as a foil or contrast it enables him to value more truly the good things he constantly enjoys, perhaps without perceiving them.

I sorter like a gloomy day, Th' kind that jest won't smile; It makes a feller hump hisself T' make life seem wuth while. When sun's a-shinin' an' th' sky Is washed out bright an' gay, It ain't no job to whistle—but It is— When skies air gray!

So gloomy days air good fer us, They make us look about To find our blessin's—make us count The friends who never doubt, Most any one kin smile and joke And hold blue-devils back When it is bright, but we must work T' grin— When skies air black!

That's why I sorter like dark days, That put it up to me To keep th' gloom from soakin' in My whole anatomy! An' if they never come along My soul would surely rust— Th' dark days keeps my cheerfulness From draggin' In th' dust!

Everard Jack Appleton.

From "The Quiet Courage."



GLADNESS

A coal miner does not need the sun's illumination. He carries his own light.

The world has brought not anything To make me glad to-day! The swallow had a broken wing, And after all my journeying There was no water in the spring— My friend has said me nay. But yet somehow I needs must sing As on a luckier day.

Dusk fails as gray as any tear, There is no hope in sight! But something in me seems so fair, That like a star I needs must wear A safety made of shining air Between me and the night. Such inner weavings do I wear All fashioned of delight!

I need not for these robes of mine The loveliness of earth, But happenings remote and fine Like threads of dreams will blow and shine In gossamer and crystalline, And I was glad from birth. So even while my eyes repine, My heart is clothed in mirth.

Anna Hempstead Branch.

From "The Shoes That Danced, and Other Poems."



IT WON'T STAY BLOWED

It is easier to fail than succeed. It is easier to drift downstream than up. But just as pent steam finds an escape somewhere, so will the man who persists break at one point or another through confining circumstance.