To the sniffing pickaninny once his good old mammy said, "Yo' lil' black nose am drippin' from de cold dat's in yo' head, An' yo' sleeve am slick and shiny like de hillside when it snows. Why doan' you pump de bellers from de inside ob yo' nose?" "Ain't I been," the child replied to her, "a-doin' ob jes' dat Twel I's got a turble empty feel right whur I wears muh hat? De traffic soht o' nacherly keeps gittin' in de road. I blow muh nose a-plenty, but it won't stay blowed.

"What's de use ob raisin' chickens ef dey won't stay riz? What's de use ob freezin' sherbet ef it won't stay friz? What's de use ob payin' debts off ef dey's gwine stay owed? What's de use ob blowin' noses ef dey won't stay blowed?"

This old world is sometimes jealous of the chap who means to rise; It sneers at what he's doing or it bats him 'twixt the eyes; It trips him when he's careless, and it makes his way so hard What's left of him is sinew, not a walking tub of lard; But it's only wasting effort, for by George, the guy keeps on When his hopes have crumbled round him and you'd think his faith was gone, Till the world at last knocks under and it passes him a crown: Once, twice, thrice it has upset him, but he won't stay down.

What cares he when out he's flattened by the cruel blow it deals? He has rubber in his shoulders and a mainspring in his heels. Let the world uncork its buffets till he's bruised from toe to crown; Let it thump him, bump him, dump him, but he won't stay down.

St. Clair Adams.



THE RAINBOW

Our lives are not a hodge-podge of separate experiences, though they sometimes seem so. They are held together by simple things which we behold again and again with the same emotions. Thus the man is what the boy has been; the tree is inclined in the precise direction the twig was bent.

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.

William Wordsworth.



THE FIRM OF GRIN AND BARRETT

It has been said that when disaster overtakes us, we can do one of two things—we can grin and bear it, or we needn't grin. The spirit that keeps a smile on our faces when our burden is heaviest is the spirit that will win in the long run. Many men know how to take success quietly. The real test of a man is he way he takes failure.

No financial throe volcanic Ever yet was known to scare it; Never yet was any panic Scared the firm of Grin and Barrett. From the flurry and the fluster, From the ruin and the crashes, They arise in brighter lustre, Like the phoenix from his ashes. When the banks and corporations Quake with fear, they do not share it; Smiling through all perturbations Goes the firm of Grin and Barrett. Grin and Barrett, Who can scare it? Scare the firm of Grin and Barrett?

When the tide-sweep of reverses Smites them, firm they stand and dare it Without wailings, tears, or curses, This stout firm of Grin and Barrett. Even should their house go under In the flood and inundation, Calm they stand amid the thunder Without noise or demonstration. And, when sackcloth is the fashion, With a patient smile they wear it, Without petulance or passion, This old firm of Grin and Barrett. Grin and Barrett, Who can scare it? Scare the firm of Grin and Barrett?

When the other firms show dizziness, Here's a house that does not share it. Wouldn't you like to join the business? Join the firm of Grin and Barrett? Give your strength that does not murmur, And your nerve that does not falter, And you've joined a house that's firmer Than the old rock of Gibraltar. They have won a good prosperity; Why not join the firm and share it? Step, young fellow, with celerity; Join the firm of Grin and Barrett. Grin and Barrett, Who can scare it? Scare the firm of Grin and Barrett?

Sam Walter Foss.

From "Songs of the Average Man."



CHALLENGE

Napoleon is reported to have complained of the English that they didn't have sense enough to know when they were beaten. Even if defeat is unmistakable, it need not be final. A battle may be lost, but the campaign won; a campaign lost, but the war won.

Life, I challenge you to try me, Doom me to unending pain; Stay my hand, becloud my vision, Break my heart and then—again.

Shatter every dream I've cherished, Fill my heart with ruthless fear; Follow every smile that cheers me With a bitter, blinding tear.

Thus I dare you; you can try me, Seek to make me cringe and moan, Still my unbound soul defies you, I'll withstand you—and, alone!

Jean Nette.



YOUR MISSION

One of the most often-heard of sentences is "I don't know what I'm to do in the world." Yet very few people are ever for a moment out of something to do, especially if they do not insist on climbing to the top of the pole and waving the flag, but are willing to steady the pole while somebody else climbs.

If you cannot on the ocean Sail among the swiftest fleet, Rocking on the highest billows, Laughing at the storms you meet; You can stand among the sailors, Anchored yet within the bay, You can lend a hand to help them As they launch their boats away.

If you are too weak to journey Up the mountain, steep and high, You can stand within the valley While the multitudes go by; You can chant in happy measure As they slowly pass along— Though they may forget the singer, They will not forget the song.

* * * * *

If you cannot in the harvest Garner up the richest sheaves, Many a grain, both ripe and golden, Oft the careless reaper leaves; Go and glean among the briars Growing rank against the wall, For it may be that their shadow Hides the heaviest grain of all.

If you cannot in the conflict Prove yourself a soldier true; If, where fire and smoke are thickest, There's no work for you to do; When the battle field is silent, You can go with careful tread; You can bear away the wounded, You can cover up the dead.

Do not then stand idly waiting For some greater work to do; Fortune is a lazy goddess, She will never come to you; Go and toil in any vineyard, Do not fear to do and dare. If you want a field of labor You can find it anywhere.

Ellen M.H. Gates.



VICTORY

To fail is not a disgrace; the disgrace lies in not trying. In his old age Sir Walter Scott found that a publishing firm he was connected with was heavily in debt. He refused to take advantage of the bankruptcy law, and sat down with his pen to make good the deficit. Though he wore out his life in the struggle and did not live to see the debt entirely liquidated, he died an honored and honorable man.

I call no fight a losing fight If, fighting, I have gained some straight new strength; If, fighting, I turned ever toward the light, All unallied with forces of the night; If, beaten, quivering, I could say at length: "I did no deed that needs to be unnamed; I fought—and lost—and I am unashamed."

Miriam Teichner.



TIMES GO BY TURNS

One of the greatest blessings in life is alteration. The ins become outs, the outs ins; the ups become downs, the downs ups; and so on—and it is better so. We must not get too highly elated at success, for life is not all success. We must not grow too downcast from failure, for life is not all failure.

The lopped tree in time may grow again, Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; The sorriest wight may find release of pain, The driest soil suck in some moistening shower; Time goes by turns, and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.

The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow; She draws her favors to the lowest ebb; Her tides have equal times to come and go; Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web; No joy so great but runneth to an end, No hap so hard but may in fine amend.

Not always fall of leaf, nor ever Spring; Not endless night, yet not eternal day; The saddest birds a season find to sing; The roughest storm a calm may soon allay. Thus, with succeeding turns God tempereth all, That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.

A chance may win that by mischance was lost; That net that holds no great takes little fish; In some things all, in all things none are crost; Few all they need, but none have all they wish. Unmingled joys here to no man befall; Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all.

Robert Southwell.



TO-DAY

The past did not behold to-day; the future shall not. We must use it now if it is to be of any benefit to mankind.

So here hath been dawning Another blue day; Think, wilt thou let it Slip useless away?

Out of Eternity This new day is born; Into Eternity, At night will return.

Behold it aforetime No eye ever did; So soon it for ever From all eyes is hid.

Here hath been dawning Another blue day; Think, wilt thou let it Slip useless away?

Thomas Carlyle.



UNAFRAID

I have no fear. What is in store for me Shall find me ready for it, undismayed. God grant my only cowardice may be Afraid—to be afraid!

Everard Jack Appleton.

From "The Quiet Courage."



BORROWED FEATHERS

Many good, attractive people spoil the merits they have by trying to be something bigger or showier. It is always best to be one's self.

A rooster one morning was preening his feathers That glistened so bright in the sun; He admired the tints of the various colors As he laid them in place one by one. Now as roosters go he was a fine bird, And he should have been satisfied; But suddenly there as he marched along, Some peacock feathers he spied. They had beautiful spots and their colors were gay— He wished that his own could be green; He dropped his tail, tried to hide it away; Was completely ashamed to be seen.

Then his foolish mind hatched up a scheme— A peacock yet he could be; So he hopped behind a bush to undress Where the other fowls could not see. He caught his own tail between his bill, And pulled every feather out; And into the holes stuck the peacock plumes; Then proudly strutted about. The other fowls rushed to see the queer sight; And the peacocks came when they heard; They could not agree just what he was, But pronounced him a funny bird.

Then the chickens were angry that one of their kind Should try to be a peacock; And the peacocks were mad that one with their tail Should belong to a common fowl flock. So the chickens beset him most cruelly behind, And yanked his whole tail out together; The peacocks attacked him madly before, And pulled out each chicken feather. And when he stood stripped clean down to the skin, A horrible thing to the rest, He learned this sad lesson when it was too late— As his own simple self he was best.

Joseph Morris.



KEEP ON KEEPIN' ON

The author of these homely stanzas has caught perfectly the spirit which succeeds in the rough-and-tumble of actual life.

If the day looks kinder gloomy And your chances kinder slim, If the situation's puzzlin' And the prospect's awful grim, If perplexities keep pressin' Till hope is nearly gone, Just bristle up and grit your teeth And keep on keepin' on.

Frettin' never wins a fight And fumin' never pays; There ain't no use in broodin' In these pessimistic ways; Smile just kinder cheerfully Though hope is nearly gone, And bristle up and grit your teeth And keep on keepin' on.

There ain't no use in growlin' And grumblin' all the time, When music's ringin' everywhere And everything's a rhyme. Just keep on smilin' cheerfully If hope is nearly gone, And bristle up and grit your teeth And keep on keepin' on.

Anonymous.



THE DISAPPOINTED

Those who have striven nobly and failed deserve sympathy. Sometimes they deserve also praise unreserved, in that they have refused to do something ignoble which would have led to what the world calls success. They have lived the idea which Macbeth merely proclaimed:

"I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none."

There are songs enough for the hero Who dwells on the heights of fame; I sing of the disappointed— For those who have missed their aim.

I sing with a tearful cadence For one who stands in the dark, And knows that his last, best arrow Has bounded back from the mark.

I sing for the breathless runner, The eager, anxious soul, Who falls with his strength exhausted. Almost in sight of the goal;

For the hearts that break in silence, With a sorrow all unknown, For those who need companions, Yet walk their ways alone.

There are songs enough for the lovers Who share love's tender pain, I sing for the one whose passion Is given all in vain.

For those whose spirit comrades Have missed them on their way, I sing, with a heart o'erflowing, This minor strain to-day.

And I know the Solar system Must somewhere keep in space A prize for that spent runner Who barely lost the race.

For the plan would be imperfect Unless it held some sphere That paid for the toil and talent And love that are wasted here.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

From "Picked Poems."



LET ME LIVE OUT MY YEARS

We speak of the comforts and ease of old age, but our noblest selves do not really desire them. We want to do more than exist. We want to be alive to the very last.

Let me live out my years in heat of blood! Let me die drunken with the dreamer's wine! Let me not see this soul-house built of mud Go toppling to the dust—a vacant shrine!

Let me go quickly like a candle light Snuffed out just at the heyday of its glow! Give me high noon—and let it then be night! Thus would I go.

And grant that when I face the grisly Thing, My song may triumph down the gray Perhaps! Let me be as a tuneswept fiddlestring That feels the Master Melody—and snaps.

John G. Neihardt

From "The Quest" (collected lyrics).



COLUMBUS

This poem pictures courage and high resolution. To the terrors of an unknown sea and the mutinous dismay of the sailors Columbus has but two things to oppose—his faith and his unflinching will. But these suffice, as they always do. In the last four lines of the poem is a lesson for our nation to-day. The seas upon which our ideals have launched us are perilous and uncharted. In some ways our whole voyage of democracy seems futile. Shall we turn back, or shall we, like Columbus, answer the falterers in words that leap like a leaping sword; "Sail on, sail on"?

Behind him lay the gray Azores, Behind the Gates of Hercules; Before him not the ghost of shores: Before him only shoreless seas. The good mate said: "Now must we pray, For lo! the very stars are gone. Brave Adm'r'l, speak; what shall I say?" "Why, say: 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'"

"My men grow mutinous day by day; My men grow ghastly wan and weak." The stout mate thought of home; a spray Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. "What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say, If we sight naught but seas at dawn?" "Why, you shall say at break of day: 'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'"

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow; Until at last the blanched mate said: "Why, now not even God would know Should I and all my men fall dead. These very winds forget their way, For God from these dread seas is gone. Now speak, brave Adm'r'l; speak and say—" He said: "Sail on! sail on! and on!"

They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate: "This mad sea shows his teeth to-night. He curls his lip, he lies in wait, With lifted teeth, as if to bite! Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word: What shall we do when hope is gone?" The words leapt like a leaping sword: "Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, And peered through darkness. Ah, that night Of all dark nights! And then a speck— It grew, a starlit flag unfurled! It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. He gained a world; he gave that world Its grandest lesson: "On! sail on!"

Joaquin Miller.

From "Joaquin Miller's Complete Poems."



PER ASPERA

A motto has been made of the Latin phrase "per aspera ad astra," of which the translation sometimes given is "through bolts and bars to the stars."

Thank God, a man can grow! He is not bound With earthward gaze to creep along the ground: Though his beginnings be but poor and low, Thank God, a man can grow! The fire upon his altars may burn dim, The torch he lighted may in darkness fail, And nothing to rekindle it avail,— Yet high beyond his dull horizon's rim, Arcturus and the Pleiads beckon him.

Florence Earle Coates.

From "Poems."



TIT FOR TAT

We are quick to notice obstacles, grudges, affronts. Are we equally quick to recognize the kindly influences that speed us on our way? The truth is we are each of us a debtor to life, and as honest men we should do all we can to discharge the obligation.

"Life," you say, "'s an old curmudgeon; yes, a thing whose heart is flint; When I ask a friendly greeting, all I get's an angry glint. Let me do it every good turn that I can—my very best, Still it strikes me, trips, maligns me, and denies my least request.

"So," you say, "my patience ended, I will give it tit for tat." What a bunch of animosities is covered by your hat! All the roses life can offer bloom and beckon to your soul, But you close your eyes to roses and in thorns lie down and roll.

Life does nothing for you, sonny? What a notion you have! Say, Make a little inventory of its gifts to you to-day. You've a house or room to sleep in—did you build it with your hand? If you did, who made the hammer and who cleared for you the land?

And electric lights—you use them; did you also put them there? Beefsteak, coal, your mail, shoes, street cars—do they come like rain from air? Or do countless men, far-scattered, toil that you may have more ease?— Stokers, hodmen, farmers, plumbers, Yankees, dagoes, Japanese?

"Oh, that's general," you tell me. You have private blessings too. Why, your mother in your childhood slaved and wrought and lived for you. Helpful hands were all around you—hopes, fond wishes in the past; Even now each day from somewhere friendly looks are on you cast.

Though you've been both crossed and harried, you've not struggled on alone; Through the discords of endeavor comes to you an answering tone. Life has done you many favors. Will you give it tit for tat? Since you've looked so much at this side, won't you have a look at that?

Don't help only those who've helped you, count the rest as strangers, foes; How long now would you have lasted had all done as you propose? Many and many a benefactor you did not nor can repay— There's your mother. Pass the kindness on to others—that's the way.

Life it is that's given freely. Unto life make due return. Whether folks are undeserving, neither seek nor wish to learn. Hit your dernedest for your teammates every time you come to bat, And the world will be more happy that you give it tit for tat.

St. Clair Adams.



THE KINGDOM OF MAN

The wisest men know that the greatest world is not outside them. They could, in Shakespeare's phrase, be bounded by a nut-shell and count themselves kings of infinite space.

What of the outer drear, As long as there's inner light; As long as the sun of cheer Shines ardently bright?

As long as the soul's a-wing, As long as the heart is true, What power hath trouble to bring A sorrow to you?

No bar can encage the soul, Nor capture the spirit free, As long as old earth shall roll, Or hours shall be.

Our world is the world within, Our life is the thought we take, And never an outer sin Can mar it or break.

Brood not on the rich man's land, Sigh not for miser's gold, Holding in reach of your hand The treasure untold

That lies in the Mines of Heart, That rests in the soul alone— Bid worry and care depart, Come into your own!

John Kendrick

From "Songs of Cheer."



ABOU BEN ADHEM

"Forgive my enemies?" said the dying man to the priest. "I have none. I've killed them all." This old ideal of exterminating our enemies has by no means disappeared from the earth. But it is waning. "Live and let live" is a more modern slogan, which mounts in turn from mere toleration of other people to a spirit of service and universal brotherhood. Love of our fellow men—has humanity reached any height superior to this?

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel writing in a book of gold:— Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said, "What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head, And with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

Leigh Hunt.



THIS WORLD

There is good in life and there is ill. The question is where we should put the emphasis.

This world that we're a-livin' in Is mighty hard to beat; You git a thorn with every rose, But ain't the roses sweet!

Frank L. Stanton.

From "The Atlanta Constitution."



GRAY DAYS

By reckoning up the odds against us and ignoring the forces in our favor, we may indeed close the door of hope. But why not take matters the other way about? Why not see the situation clearly and then throw our own strong purpose in the scales? In the course of a battle an officer reported to Stonewall Jackson that he must fall back because his ammunition had been spoiled by a rainstorm. "So has the enemy's," was the instant reply. "Give them the bayonet." This resolute spirit won the battle.

Hang the gray days! The deuce-to-pay days! The feeling-blue and nothing-to-do days! The sit-by-yourself-for-there's-nothing-new days! When the cat that Care killed without excuse With your inner self's crying, "Oh, what's the use?" And you wonder whatever is going to become of you, And you feel that a cipher expresses the sum of you; And you know that you'll never, Oh, never, be clever, Spite of all your endeavor Or hard work or whatever! Oh, gee! What a mix-up you see When you look at the world where you happen to be! Where strangers are hateful and friends are a bore, And you know in your heart you will smile nevermore! Gee, kid! Clap on the lid! It is all a mistake! Give your worries the skid! There are sunny days coming Succeeding the blue And bees will be humming Making honey for you, And your heart will be singing The merriest tune While April is bringing A May and a June! Gray days? Play days! Joy-bringing pay days And heart-lifting May days! The sun will be shining in just a wee while So smile!

Griffith Alexander.

From "The Philadelphia Evening Public Ledger."



LAUGH A LITTLE BIT

"A merry heart doeth good like a medicine"; a little laughter cures many a seeming ill.

Here's a motto, just your fit— Laugh a little bit. When you think you're trouble hit, Laugh a little bit. Look misfortune in the face. Brave the beldam's rude grimace; Ten to one 'twill yield its place, If you have the wit and grit Just to laugh a little bit.

Keep your face with sunshine lit, Laugh a little bit. All the shadows off will flit, If you have the grit and wit Just to laugh a little bit.

Cherish this as sacred writ— Laugh a little bit. Keep it with you, sample it, Laugh a little bit. Little ills will sure betide you, Fortune may not sit beside you, Men may mock and fame deride you, But you'll mind them not a whit If you laugh a little bit.

Edmund Vance Cooke.

From "A Patch of Pansies."



A SONG OF LIFE

Many of us merely exist, and think that we live. What we should regain at all costs is freshness and intensity of being. This need not involve turbulent activity. It may involve quite the opposite.

Say not, "I live!" Unless the morning's trumpet brings A shock of glory to your soul, Unless the ecstasy that sings Through rushing worlds and insects' wings, Sends you upspringing to your goal, Glad of the need for toil and strife, Eager to grapple hands with Life— Say not, "I live!"

Say not, "I live!" Unless the energy that rings Throughout this universe of fire A challenge to your spirit flings, Here in the world of men and things, Thrilling you with a huge desire To mate your purpose with the stars, To shout with Jupiter and Mars— Say not, "I live!"

Say not, "I live!" Such were a libel on the Plan Blazing within the mind of God Ere world or star or sun began. Say rather, with your fellow man, "I grub; I burrow in the sod." Life is not life that does not flame With consciousness of whence it came— Say not, "I live!"

Angela Morgan.

From "The Hour Has Struck."



A POOR UNFORTUNATE

Things are never so bad but they might have been worse. An immigrant into the South paid a negro to bring him a wild turkey. The next day he complained: "You shouldn't shoot at the turkey's body, Rastus. Shoot at his head. The flesh of that turkey was simply full of shot." "Boss," said the negro, "dem shot was meant for me."

I

His hoss went dead an' his mule went lame; He lost six cows in a poker game; A harricane came on a summer's day, An' carried the house whar' he lived away; Then a airthquake come when that wuz gone, An' swallered the lan' that the house stood on! An' the tax collector, he come roun' An' charged him up fer the hole in the groun'! An' the city marshal—he come in view An' said he wanted his street tax, too!

II

Did he moan an' sigh? Did he set an' cry An' cuss the harricane sweepin' by? Did he grieve that his ol' friends failed to call When the airthquake come an' swallered all? Never a word o' blame he said, With all them troubles on top his head! Not him.... He clumb to the top o' the hill— Whar' standin' room wuz left him still, An', barin' his head, here's what he said: "I reckon it's time to git up an' git; But, Lord, I hain't had the measels yit!"

Frank L. Stanton.

From "The Atlanta Constitution."



THE TRAINERS

To Franklin, seeking recognition and aid for his country at the French court, came news of an American disaster. "Howe has taken Philadelphia," his opponents taunted him. "Oh, no," he answered, "Philadelphia has taken Howe." He shrewdly foresaw that the very magnitude of what the British had done would lull them into overconfidence and inaction, and would stir the Americans to more determined effort. Above all, he himself was undisturbed; for to the strong-hearted, trials and reverses are instruments of final success.

My name is Trouble—I'm a busy bloke— I am the test of Courage—and of Class— I bind the coward to a bitter yoke, I drive the craven from the crowning pass; Weaklings I crush before they come to fame; But as the red star guides across the night, I train the stalwart for a better game; I drive the brave into a harder fight.

My name is Hard Luck—the wrecker of rare dreams— I follow all who seek the open fray; I am the shadow where the far light gleams For those who seek to know the open way; Quitters I break before they reach the crest, But where the red field echoes with the drums, I build the fighter for the final test And mold the brave for any drive that comes.

My name is Sorrow—I shall come to all To block the surfeit of an endless joy; Along the Sable Road I pay my call Before the sweetness of success can cloy; And weaker souls shall weep amid the throng And fall before me, broken and dismayed; But braver hearts shall know that I belong And take me in, serene and unafraid.

My name's Defeat—but through the bitter fight, To those who know, I'm something more than friend; For I can build beyond the wrath of might And drive away all yellow from the blend; For those who quit, I am the final blow, But for the brave who seek their chance to learn, I show the way, at last, beyond the foe, To where the scarlet flames of triumph burn.

Grantland Rice.

From "The Sportlight."



LIFE

Most of us have failed or gone astray in one fashion or another, at one time or another. But we need not become despondent at such times. We should resolve to reap the full benefit of the discovery of our weakness, our folly.

All in the dark we grope along, And if we go amiss We learn at least which path is wrong, And there is gain in this.

We do not always win the race By only running right, We have to tread the mountain's base Before we reach its height.

* * * * *

But he who loves himself the last And knows the use of pain, Though strewn with errors all his past, He surely shall attain.

Some souls there are that needs must taste Of wrong, ere choosing right; We should not call those years a waste Which led us to the light.

Etta Wheeler Wilcox.

From "Poems of Power."



A TOAST TO MERRIMENT

A lady said to Whistler that there were but two painters—himself and Velazquez. He replied: "Madam, why drag in Velazquez?" So it is with Joyousness and Gloom. Both exist,—but why drag in Gloom?

Make merry! Though the day be gray Forget the clouds and let's be gay! How short the days we linger here: A birth, a breath, and then—the bier! Make merry, you and I, for when We part we may not meet again!

What tonic is there in a frown? You may go up and I go down, Or I go up and you—who knows The way that either of us goes? Make merry! Here's a laugh, for when We part we may not meet again!

Make merry! What of frets and fears? There is no happiness in tears. You tremble at the cloud and lo! 'Tis gone—and so 'tis with our woe, Full half of it but fancied ills. Make merry! 'Tis the gloom that kills.

Make merry! There is sunshine yet, The gloom that promised, let's forget, The quip and jest are on the wing, Why sorrow when we ought to sing? Refill the cup of joy, for then We part and may not meet again.

A smile, a jest, a joke—alas! We come, we wonder, and we pass. The shadow falls; so long we rest In graves, where is no quip or jest. Good day! Good cheer! Good-bye! For then We part and may not meet again!

James W. Foley.

From "Friendly Rhymes."



MISTRESS FATE

"Faint heart never won fair lady," Mistress Fate herself should be courted, not with feminine finesse, but with masculine courage and aggression.

Flout her power, young man! She is merely shrewish, scolding,— She is plastic to your molding, She is woman in her yielding to the fires desires fan. Flout her power, young man!

Fight her fair, strong man! Such a serpent love is this,— Bitter wormwood in her kiss! When she strikes, be nerved and ready; Keep your gaze both bright and steady, Chance no rapier-play, but hotly press the quarrel she began! Fight her fair, strong man!

Gaze her down, old man! Now no laughter may defy her, Not a shaft of scorn come nigh her, But she waits within the shadows, in dark shadows very near. And her silence is your fear. Meet her world-old eyes of warning! Gaze them down with courage! Can You gaze them down, old man?

William Rose Benet.

From "Merchants from Cathay."



SLEEP AND THE MONARCH

(FROM "2 HENRY IV.")

The great elemental blessings cannot be "cornered." Indeed they cannot be bought at all, but are the natural property of the man whose ways of life are such as to retain them. In this passage a disappointed and harassed king comments on the slumber which he cannot woo to his couch, yet which his humblest subject enjoys.

How many thousand of my poorest subjects Are at this hour asleep! O sleep! O gentle sleep! Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down And steep my senses in forgetfulness? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hushed with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lulled with sound of sweetest melody? O thou dull god! why liest thou with the vile In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch A watch-case or a common 'larum bell? Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge, And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them With deafning clamor in the slippery clouds, That with the hurly death itself awakes? Canst thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude, And in the calmest and most stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down! Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

William Shakespeare.



NEVER TROUBLE TROUBLE

To borrow trouble is to contract a debt that any man is better without. If your troubles are not borrowed, they are not likely to be many or great.

I used to hear a saying That had a deal of pith; It gave a cheerful spirit To face existence with, Especially when matters Seemed doomed to go askew, 'Twas Never trouble trouble Till trouble troubles you.

Not woes at hand, those coming Are hardest to resist; We hear them stalk like giants, We see them through a mist. But big things in the brewing Are small things in the brew; So never trouble trouble Till trouble troubles you.

Just look at things through glasses That show the evidence; One lens of them is courage, The other common sense. They'll make it clear, misgivings Are just a bugaboo; No more you'll trouble trouble Till trouble troubles you.

St. Clair Adams.



CLEAR THE WAY

Humanity is always meeting obstacles. All honor to the men who do not fear obstacles, but push them aside and press on. Stephenson was explaining his idea that a locomotive steam engine could run along a track and draw cars after it. "But suppose a cow gets on the track," some one objected. "So much the worse," said Stephenson, "for the cow."

Men of thought! be up and stirring, Night and day; Sow the seed, withdraw the curtain, Clear the way! Men of action, aid and cheer them, As ye may! There's a fount about to stream, There's a light about to gleam, There's a warmth about to glow, There's a flower about to blow; There's midnight blackness changing Into gray! Men of thought and men of action, Clear the way!

Once the welcome light has broken, Who shall say What the unimagined glories Of the day? What the evil that shall perish In its ray? Aid it, hopes of honest men; Aid the dawning, tongue and pen; Aid it, paper, aid it, type, Aid it, for the hour is ripe; And our earnest must not slacken Into play. Men of thought and men of action, Clear the way!

Lo! a cloud's about to vanish From the day; And a brazen wrong to crumble Into clay! With the Right shall many more Enter, smiling at the door; With the giant Wrong shall fall Many others great and small, That for ages long have held us For their prey. Men of thought and men of action, Clear the way!

Charles Mackay.



ONE FIGHT MORE

We need not expect much of the man who, when defeated, gives way either to despair or to a wild impulse for immediate revenge. But from the man who stores up his strength quietly and bides his time for a new effort, we may expect everything.

Now, think you, Life, I am defeated quite? More than a single battle shall be mine Before I yield the sword and give the sign And turn, a crownless outcast, to the night. Wounded, and yet unconquered in the fight, I wait in silence till the day may shine Once more upon my strength, and all the line Of your defenses break before my might.

Mine be that warrior's blood who, stricken sore, Lies in his quiet chamber till he hears Afar the clash and clang of arms, and knows The cause he lived for calls for him once more; And straightway rises, whole and void of fears, And armed, turns him singing to his foes.

Theodosia Garrison.

From "The Earth Cry."



A PSALM OF LIFE

At times this existence of ours seems to be meaningless; whether we have succeeded or whether we have failed appears to make little difference to us, and therefore effort seems scarcely worth while. But Longfellow tells us this view is all wrong. The past can take care of itself, and we need not even worry very much about the future; but if we are true to our own natures, we must be up and doing in the present. Time is short, and mastery in any field of human activity is so long a process that it forbids us to waste our moments. Yet we must learn also how to wait and endure. In short, we must not become slaves to either indifference or impatience, but must make it our business to play a man's part in life.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream!— For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,—act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.



A CREED

Men may seem sundered from each other; but the soul that each possesses, and the destiny common to all, invest them with a basic brotherhood.

There is a destiny that makes us brothers: None goes his way alone: All that we send into the lives of others Comes back into our own.

I care not what his temples or his creeds, One thing holds firm and fast— That into his fateful heap of days and deeds The soul of a man is cast.

Edwin Markham

From "Lincoln, and Other Poems."



BATTLE CRY

We should win if we can. But in any case we should prove our manhood by fighting.

More than half beaten, but fearless, Facing the storm and the night; Breathless and reeling but tearless, Here in the lull of the fight, I who bow not but before thee, God of the fighting Clan, Lifting my fists, I implore Thee, Give me the heart of a Man!

What though I live with the winners Or perish with those who fall? Only the cowards are sinners, Fighting the fight is all. Strong is my foe—he advances! Snapt is my blade, O Lord! See the proud banners and lances! Oh, spare me this stub of a sword!

Give me no pity, nor spare me; Calm not the wrath of my Foe. See where he beckons to dare me! Bleeding, half beaten—I go. Not for the glory of winning, Not for the fear of the night; Shunning the battle is sinning— Oh, spare me the heart to fight!

Red is the mist about me; Deep is the wound in my side; "Coward" thou criest to flout me? O terrible Foe, thou hast lied! Here with my battle before me, God of the fighting Clan, Grant that the woman who bore me Suffered to suckle a Man!

John G. Neihardt.

From "The Quest" (collected lyrics).



THE HAPPY HEART

One of our objects in life should be to find happiness, contentment. The means of happiness are surprisingly simple. We need not be rich or high-placed or powerful in order to be content. In fact the lowly are often the best satisfied. Izaak Walton lived the simple life and thanked God that there were so many things in the world of which he had no need.

Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? O sweet content! Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed? O punishment! Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed To add to golden numbers, golden numbers? O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content! Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labor bears a lovely face; Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!

Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring? O sweet content! Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? O punishment! Then he that patiently want's burden bears No burden bears, but is a king, a king! O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content! Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labor bears a lovely face; Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!

Thomas Dekker.



IF YOU CAN'T GO OVER OR UNDER, GO ROUND

Often the straight road to the thing we desire is blocked. We should not then weakly give over our purpose, but should set about attaining it by some indirect method. A politician knows that one way of getting a man's vote is to please the man's wife, and that one way of pleasing the wife is to kiss her baby.

A baby mole got to feeling big, And wanted to show how he could dig; So he plowed along in the soft, warm dirt Till he hit something hard, and it surely hurt! A dozen stars flew out of his snout; He sat on his haunches, began to pout; Then rammed the thing again with his head— His grandpap picked him up half dead. "Young man," he said, "though your pate is bone. You can't butt your way through solid stone. This bit of advice is good, I've found: If you can't go over or under, go round."

A traveler came to a stream one day, And because it presumed to cross his way, And wouldn't turn round to suit his whim And change its course to go with him, His anger rose far more than it should, And he vowed he'd cross right where he stood. A man said there was a bridge below, But not a step would he budge or go. The current was swift and the bank was steep, But he jumped right in with a violent leap. A fisherman dragged him out half-drowned: "When you can't go over or under, go round."

If you come to a place that you can't get through, Or over or under, the thing to do Is to find a way round the impassable wall, Not say you'll go YOUR way or not at all. You can always get to the place you're going, If you'll set your sails as the wind is blowing. If the mountains are high, go round the valley; If the streets are blocked, go up some alley; If the parlor-car's filled, don't scorn a freight; If the front door's closed, go in the side gate. To reach your goal this advice is sound: If you can't go over or under, go round!

Joseph Morris.



THICK IS THE DARKNESS

How many of us forget when the sun goes down that it will rise again!

Thick is the darkness— Sunward, O, sunward! Rough is the highway— Onward, still onward!

Dawn harbors surely East of the shadows. Facing us somewhere Spread the sweet meadows.

Upward and forward! Time will restore us: Light is above us, Rest is before us.

William Ernest Henley.



THE BELLY AND THE MEMBERS

(ADAPTED FROM "CORIOLANUS")

No doubt the world is cursed with grafters and parasites—men who live off the body economic and give nothing substantial in return. But an appearance of uselessness is not always proof of such. We should not condemn men in ignorance. As old as Aesop is the fable of the rebellion of the other members of the body against the idle unproductiveness of the belly. In this passage the fable is used as an answer to the plebeians of Rome who have complained that the patricians are merely an encumbrance.

There was a time when all the body's members Rebelled against the belly; thus accused it: That only like a gulf it did remain I' the midst o' the body, idle and unactive, Still cupboarding the viand, never bearing Like labor with the rest, where the other instruments Did see and hear, devise, instruct, walk, feel, And, mutually participant, did minister Unto the appetite and affection common Of the whole body. Note me this, good friend; Your most grave belly was deliberate, Not rash like his accusers, and thus answered: "True is it, my incorporate friends," quoth he, "That I receive the general food at first, Which you do live upon; and fit it is; Because I am the store-house and the shop Of the whole body: but, if you do remember, I send it through the rivers of your blood, Even to the court, the heart, to the seat o' the brain: And, through the cranks and offices of man, The strongest nerves and small inferior veins From me receive that natural competency Whereby they live. Though all at once cannot See what I do deliver out to each, Yet I can make my audit up, that all From me do back receive the flour of all, And leave me but the bran." What say you to 't?

William Shakespeare.



THE CELESTIAL SURGEON

We may acquire the resolution to be happy by resting on a bed of roses. If that fails us, we should try a bed of nettles.

If I have faltered more or less In my great task of happiness; If I have moved among my race And shown no glorious morning face; If beams from happy human eyes Have moved me not; if morning skies, Books, and my food, and summer rain Knocked on my sullen heart in vain:— Lord, thy most pointed pleasure take And stab my spirit broad awake; Or, Lord, if too obdurate I, Choose thou, before that spirit die, A piercing pain, a killing sin, And to my dead heart run them in!

Robert Louis Stevenson.



MAN, BIRD, AND GOD

Robert Bruce, despairing of his country's cause, was aroused to new hope and purpose by the sight of a spider casting its lines until at last it had one that held. In the following passage the poet, uncertain as to his own future, yet trusts the providence which guides the birds in their long and uncharted migrations.

I go to prove my soul! I see my way as birds their trackless way. I shall arrive! what time, what circuit first, I ask not: but unless God send his hail Or blinding fireballs, sleet or stifling snow, In some time, his good time, I shall arrive: He guides me and the bird. In his good time!

Robert Browning.



HIS ALLY

The thought of this poem is that a man's best helper may be that which gives him no direct aid at all—a sense of humor.

He fought for his soul, and the stubborn fighting Tried hard his strength. "One needs seven souls for this long requiting," He said at length.

"Six times have I come where my first hope jeered me And laughed me to scorn; But now I fear as I never feared me To fall forsworn.

"God! when they fight upright and at me I give them back Even such blows as theirs that combat me; But now, alack!

"They fight with the wiles of fiends escaping And underhand. Six times, O God, and my wounds are gaping! I—reel to stand.

"Six battles' span! By this gasping breath No pantomime. Tis all that I can. I am sick unto death. And—a seventh time?

"This is beyond all battles' soreness!" Then his wonder cried; For Laughter, with shield and steely harness, Stood up at his side!

William Rose Benet,

From "Merchants from Cathay."



SUBMISSION

There are times when the right thing to do is to submit. There are times when the right thing is to strive, to fight. To put forth one's best effort is itself a reward. But sometimes it brings a material reward also. The frog that after falling into the churn found that it couldn't jump out and wouldn't try, was drowned. The frog that kept leaping in brave but seemingly hopeless endeavor at last churned the milk, mounted the butter for a final effort, and escaped.

Submission? They have preached at that so long. As though the head bowed down would right the wrong, As though the folded hand, the coward heart Were saintly signs of souls sublimely strong; As though the man who acts the waiting part And but submits, had little wings a-start. But may I never reach that anguished plight Where I at last grow weary of the fight.

Submission: "Wrong of course must ever be Because it ever was. 'Tis not for me To seek a change; to strike the maiden blow. 'Tis best to bow the head and not to see; 'Tis best to dream, that we need never know The truth. To turn our eyes away from woe." Perhaps. But ah—I pray for keener sight, And may I not grow weary of the fight.

Miriam Teichner.



A PRAYER

Garibaldi, the Italian patriot, said to his men: "I do not promise you ease; I do not promise you comfort. I promise you hardship, weariness, suffering; but I promise you victory."

I do not pray for peace, Nor ask that on my path The sounds of war shall shrill no more, The way be clear of wrath. But this I beg thee, Lord, Steel Thou my heart with might, And in the strife that men call life, Grant me the strength to fight.

I do not pray for arms, Nor shield to cover me. What though I stand with empty hand, So it be valiantly! Spare me the coward's fear— Questioning wrong or right: Lord, among these mine enemies, Grant me the strength to fight.

I do not pray that Thou Keep me from any wound, Though I fall low from thrust and blow, Forced fighting to the ground; But give me wit to hide My hurt from all men's sight, And for my need the while I bleed, Lord, grant me strength to fight.

I do not pray that Thou Shouldst grant me victory; Enough to know that from my foe I have no will to flee. Beaten and bruised and banned, Flung like a broken sword, Grant me this thing for conquering— Let me die fighting, Lord!

Theodosia Garrison.

From "The Earth Cry."



STABILITY

Whom do we wish for our friends and allies? On whom would we wish to depend in a time of need? Those who are not the slaves of fortune, but have made the most of both her buffets and her rewards. Those who control their fears and rash impulses, and do not give way to sudden emotion. Amid confusion and disaster men like these will stand, as Jackson did at Bull Run, like a veritable stone wall.

Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice And could of men distinguish, her election Hath sealed thee for herself; for thou hast been As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing, A man that fortune's buffets and rewards Hast ta'en with equal thanks; and bless'd are those Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger To sound what stop she please. Give me that man That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart, As I do thee.

William Shakespeare.



THE BARS OF FATE

"There ain't no such beast," ejaculated a farmer as he gazed at the rhinoceros at a circus. His incredulity did not of course do away with the existence of the creature. But our incredulity about many of our difficulties will do away with them. They exist chiefly in our imaginations.

I stood before the bars of Fate And bowed my head disconsolate; So high they seemed, so fierce their frown. I thought no hand could break them down.

Beyond them I could hear the songs Of valiant men who marched in throngs; And joyful women, fair and free, Looked back and waved their hands to me.

I did not cry "Too late! too late!" Or strive to rise, or rail at Fate, Or pray to God. My coward heart, Contented, played its foolish part.

So still I sat, the tireless bee Sped o'er my head, with scorn for me, And birds who build their nests in air Beheld me, as I were not there.

From twig to twig, before my face, The spiders wove their curious lace, As they a curtain fine would see Between the hindering bars and me.

Then, sudden change! I heard the call Of wind and wave and waterfall; From heaven above and earth below A clear command—"ARISE AND GO!"

I upward sprang in all my strength, And stretched my eager hands at length To break the bars—no bars were there; My fingers fell through empty air!

Ellen M.H. Gates.

From "To the Unborn Peoples."



ULTIMATE ACT

It is well to have purposes we can carry out. It is also well to have purposes so lofty that we cannot carry them out; for these latter are the mighty inner fires which warm our being at its core and without which our impulse to do even the lesser things would be feeble.

I had rather cut man's purpose deeper than Achieving it be crowned as conqueror; To will divinely is to accomplish more Than a mere deed: it fills anew the wan Aspect of life with blood; it draws upon Sources beyond the common reach and lore Of mortals, to replenish at its core The God-impassioned energy of man. And herewith all the worlds of deed and thought Quicken again with meaning—pulse and thrill With Deity—that had forgot His touch. There is not any act avails so much As this invisible wedding of the will With Life—yea, though it seem to accomplish naught.

Henry Bryan Binns.

From "The Free Spirit."



HE WHOM A DREAM HATH POSSESSED

The man possessed by a vision is not perplexed, troubled, restricted, as the rest of us are. He wanders yet is not lost from home, sees a million dawns yet never night descending, faces death and destruction and in them finds triumph.

He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more of doubting, For mist and the blowing of winds and the mouthing of words he scorns; Not the sinuous speech of schools he hears, but a knightly shouting, And never comes darkness down, yet he greeteth a million morns.

He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more of roaming; All roads and the flowing of waves and the speediest flight he knows, But wherever his feet are set, his soul is forever homing, And going, he comes, and coming he heareth a call and goes.

He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more of sorrow, At death and the dropping of leaves and the fading of suns he smiles, For a dream remembers no past and scorns the desire of a morrow, And a dream in a sea of doom sets surely the ultimate isles.

He whom a dream hath possessed treads the impalpable marches, From the dust of the day's long road he leaps to a laughing star, And the ruin of worlds that fall he views from eternal arches, And rides God's battlefield in a flashing and golden car.

Sheamus O Sheel.

From "The Lyric Year."



SUCCESS

As necessity is the mother of invention, strong desire is the mother of attainment.

If you want a thing bad enough To go out and fight for it, Work day and night for it, Give up your time and your peace and your sleep for it If only desire of it Makes you quite mad enough Never to tire of it, Makes you hold all other things tawdry and cheap for it If life seems all empty and useless without it And all that you scheme and you dream is about it, If gladly you'll sweat for it, Fret for it, Plan for it, Lose all your terror of God or man for it, If you'll simply go after that thing that you want, With all your capacity, Strength and sagacity, Faith, hope and confidence, stern pertinacity, If neither cold poverty, famished and gaunt, Nor sickness nor pain Of body or brain Can turn you away from the thing that you want, If dogged and grim you besiege and beset it, You'll get it!

Berton Braley.

From "Things As They Are."



PLAY THE GAME

The Duke of Wellington said that the battle of Waterloo was won on the cricket fields of Eton. English sport at its best is admirable; it asks outward triumph if possible, but far more it asks that one do his best till the very end and treat his opponent with courtesy and fairness. The spirit thus instilled at school has again and again been carried in after life into the large affairs of the nation.

There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night— Ten to make and the match to win— A bumping pitch and a blinding light, An hour to play and the last man in. And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat Or the selfish hope of a season's fame, But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote; "Play up! Play up! And play the game!"

The sand of the desert is sodden red— Red with the wreck of a square that broke; The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead, And the regiment's blind with dust and smoke. The river of death has brimmed his banks, And England's far and Honor a name, But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks, "Play up! Play up! And play the game!"

This is the word that year by year, While in her place the School is set, Every one of her sons must hear, And none that hears it dare forget. This they all with a joyful mind Bear through life like a torch in flame, And falling, fling to the host behind— "Play up! Play up! And play the game!"

Henry Newbolt.

From "Admirals All, and Other Verses."



THE MAN WHO FRETS AT WORLDLY STRIFE

"Lord, what fools these mortals be!" exclaims Puck in A Mid-summer Night's Dream. And well might the fairy marvel who sees folk vexing themselves over matters that nine times out of ten come to nothing. Much wiser is the man who smiles at misfortunes, even when they are real ones and affect him personally. Charles Lamb once cheerfully helped to hiss off the stage a play he himself had written.

The man who frets at worldly strife Grows sallow, sour, and thin; Give us the lad whose happy life Is one perpetual grin: He, Midas-like, turns all to gold— He smiles when others sigh, Enjoys alike the hot and cold, And laughs though wet or dry.

There's fun in everything we meet,— The greatest, worst, and best; Existence is a merry treat, And every speech a jest:

* * * * *

So, come what may, the man's in luck Who turns it all to glee, And laughing, cries, with honest Puck, "Good Lord! what fools ye be."

Joseph Rodman Drake.



SERENITY

Calmness of mind to face anything the future may have in store is expressed in this quatrain.

Here's a sigh to those who love me And a smile to those who hate; And whatever sky's above me, Here's a heart for every fate.

Lord Byron.



HERE'S HOPIN'

An optimist has been described as a man who orders oysters at a restaurant and expects to find a pearl to pay the bill with. This of course is not optimism, but brazen brainlessness. Yet somehow the pearls come only to those who expect them.

Year ain't been the very best;— Purty hard by trouble pressed; But the rough way leads to rest,— Here's hopin'!

Maybe craps way short; the rills Couldn't turn the silent mills; But the light's behind the hills,— Here's hopin'!

Where we planted roses sweet Thorns come up an' pricked the feet; But this old world's hard to beat,— Here's hopin'!

P'r'aps the buildin' that we planned 'Gainst the cyclone couldn't stand; But, thank God we've got the land,— Here's hopin'!

Maybe flowers we hoped to save Have been scattered on a grave; But the heart's still beatin' brave,— Here's hopin'!

That we'll see the mornin' light— That the very darkest night Can't hide heaven from our sight,— Here's hopin'!

Frank L. Stanton.

From "The Atlanta Constitution."



CLEON AND I

Toward the end of the yacht race in which the America won her historic cup the English monarch, who was one of the spectators, inquired: "Which boat is first?" "The America seems to be first, your majesty," replied an aide. "And which is second?" asked the monarch. "Your majesty, there seems to be no second." So it is in the race for happiness. The man who is natural, who is open and kind of heart, is always first. The man who is merely rich or sheltered or proud is not even a good second.

Cleon hath a million acres, ne'er a one have I; Cleon dwelleth in a palace, in a cottage I; Cleon hath a dozen fortunes, not a penny I; Yet the poorer of the twain is Cleon, and not I.

Cleon, true, possesses acres, but the landscape I; Half the charm to me it yieldeth money can not buy, Cleon harbors sloth and dullness, freshening vigor I; He in velvet, I in fustian, richer man am I.

Cleon is a slave to grandeur, free as thought am I; Cleon fees a score of doctors, need of none have I; Wealth-surrounded, care-environed, Cleon fears to die; Death may come, he'll find me ready, happier man am I.

Cleon sees no charm in nature, in a daisy I; Cleon hears no anthems ringing in the sea and sky; Nature sings to me forever, earnest listener I; State for state, with all attendants, who would change? Not I.

Charles Mackay.



THE PESSIMIST

Most of our ills and troubles are not very serious when we come to examine the realities of them. Or perhaps we expect too much. An old negro was complaining that the railroad would not pay him for his mule, which it had killed—nay, would not even give him back his rope. "What rope?" he was asked. "Why, sah," answered he, "de rope dat I tied de mule on de track wif."

Nothing to do but work, Nothing to eat but food, Nothing to wear but clothes To keep one from going nude.

Nothing to breathe but air Quick as a flash 'tis gone; Nowhere to fall but off, Nowhere to stand but on.

Nothing to comb but hair, Nowhere to sleep but in bed, Nothing to weep but tears, Nothing to bury but dead.

Nothing to sing but songs, Ah, well, alas! alack! Nowhere to go but out, Nowhere to come but back.

Nothing to see but sights, Nothing to quench but thirst, Nothing to have but what we've got; Thus thro' life we are cursed.

Nothing to strike but a gait; Everything moves that goes. Nothing at all but common sense Can ever withstand these woes.

Ben King.

From "Ben King's Verse."



A PROBLEM TO BE SOLVED

There are irritating, troublesome people about us. Of what use is it to be irritating in our turn or to add to the trouble? Most offenders have their better side. Our wisest course is to find this and upon the basis of it build up a better relationship.

There's a fellow in your office Who complains and carps and whines Till you'd almost do a favor To his heirs and his assigns. But I'll tip you to a secret (And this chap's of course involved)— He's no foeman to be fought with; He's a problem to be solved.

There's a duffer in your district Whose sheer cussedness is such He has neither pride nor manners— No, nor gumption, overmuch. 'Twould be great to up and tell him Where to go. But be resolved— He's no foeman to be fought with, Just a problem to be solved.

This old earth's (I'm sometimes thinking) One menagerie of freaks— Folks invested with abnormal Lungs or brains or galls or beaks. But we're not just shrieking monkeys In a dim, vast cage revolved; We're not foemen to be fought with, Merely problems to be solved.

St. Clair Adams.



PROSPICE

Here the poet looks forward to death. He does not ask for an easy death; he does not wish to creep past an experience which all men sooner or later must face, and which many men have faced so heroically. He has fought well in life; he wishes to make the last fight too. The poem was written shortly after the death of Mrs. Browning, and the closing lines refer to her.

Fear death?—to feel the fog in my throat, The mist in my face, When the snows begin, and the blasts denote I am nearing the place, The power of the night, the press of the storm, The post of the foe; Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, Yet the strong man must go: For the journey is done and the summit attained, And the barriers fall, Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, The reward of it all. I was ever a fighter, so—one fight more, The best and the last! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore. And bade me creep past. No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers The heroes of old, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears Of pain, darkness and cold. For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, The black minute's at end, And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, Shall dwindle, shall blend, Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, Then a light, then thy breast, O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, And with God be the rest!

Robert Browning.



THE GREATNESS OF THE SOUL

Geologists tell us that in the long processes of the ages mountains have been raised and leveled, continents formed and washed away. Astronomers tell us that in space are countless worlds, many of them doubtless inhabited—perhaps by creatures of a lower type than we, perhaps by creatures of a higher. The magnitude of these changes and of these worlds makes the imagination reel. But on one thing we can rely—the greatness of the human soul. On one thing we can confidently build—the men whose spirit is lofty, divine.

For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill And break the shore, and evermore Make and break, and work their will; Tho' world on world in myriad myriads roll Round us, each with different powers, And other forms of life than ours, What know we greater than the soul? On God and Godlike men we build our trust.

Alfred Tennyson.



HEINELET

What sheer perseverance can accomplish, even in matters of the heart, is revealed in this little poem written in Heine's mood of mingled seriousness and gayety.

He asked if she ever could love him. She answered him, no, on the spot. He asked if she ever could love him. She assured him again she could not.

He asked if she ever could love him. She laughed till his blushes he hid. He asked if she ever could love him. By God, she admitted she did.

Gamaliel Bradford.

From "Shadow Verses."



STAND FORTH!

The human spirit can triumph over difficulties, as flowers bloom along the edge of the Alpine snow.

Stand forth, my soul, and grip thy woe, Buckle the sword and face thy foe. What right hast thou to be afraid When all the universe will aid? Ten thousand rally to thy name, Horses and chariots of flame. Do others fear? Do others fail? My soul must grapple and prevail. My soul must scale the mountainside And with the conquering army ride— Stand forth, my soul!

Stand forth, my soul, and take command. 'Tis I, thy master, bid thee stand. Claim thou thy ground and thrust thy foe, Plead not thine enemy should go. Let others cringe! My soul is free, No hostile host can conquer me. There lives no circumstance so great Can make me yield, or doubt my fate. My soul must know what kings have known. Must reach and claim its rightful throne— Stand forth, my soul!

I ask no truce, I have no qualms, I seek no quarter and no alms. Let those who will obey the sod, My soul sprang from the living God. 'Tis I, the king, who bid thee stand; Grasp with thy hand my royal hand— Stand forth!

Angela Morgan.

From "The Hour Has Struck."



LIONS AND ANTS

Once a hunter met a lion near the hungry critter's lair, and the way that lion mauled him was decidedly unfair; but the hunter never whimpered when the surgeons, with their thread, sewed up forty-seven gashes in his mutilated head; and he showed the scars in triumph, and they gave him pleasant fame, and he always blessed the lion that had camped upon his frame. Once that hunter, absent minded, sat upon a hill of ants, and about a million bit him, and you should have seen him dance! And he used up lots of language of a deep magenta tint, and apostrophized the insects in a style unfit to print. And it's thus with worldly troubles; when the big ones come along, we serenely go to meet them, feeling valiant, bold and strong, but the weary little worries with their poisoned stings and smarts, put the lid upon our courage, make us gray, and break our hearts.

Walt Mason.

From "Walt Mason, His Book."



LIFE, NOT DEATH

Sometimes life is so unsatisfying that we think we should like to be rid of it. But we really are not longing for death; we are longing for more life.

Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly longed for death.

'Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant, Oh life, not death, for which we pant; More life, and fuller, that I want.

Alfred Tennyson.



THE UNMUSICAL SOLOIST

In any sort of athletic contest a man who individually is good—perhaps even of the very best—may be a poor member of the team because he wishes to do all the playing himself and will not co-operate with his fellows. Every coach knows how such a man hashes the game. The same thing is true in business or in anything else where many people work together; a really capable man often fails because he hogs the center of the stage and wants to be the whole show. To seek petty, immediate triumphs instead of earning and waiting for the big, silent approval of one's own conscience and of those who understand, is a mark of inferiority. It is also a barrier to usefulness, for an egotistical man is necessarily selfish and a selfish man cannot co-operate.

Music hath charms—at least it should; Even a homely voice sounds good That sings a cheerful, gladsome song That shortens the way, however long. A screechy fife, a bass drum's beat Is wonderful music to marching feet; A scratchy fiddle or banjo's thump May tickle the toes till they want to jump. But one musician fills the air With discords that jar folks everywhere. A pity it is he ever was born— The discordant fellow who toots his own horn.

He gets in the front where all can see— "Now turn the spot-light right on me," He says, and sings in tones sonorous His own sweet halleluiah chorus. Refrain and verse are both the same— The pronoun I or his own name. He trumpets his worth with such windy tooting That louder it sounds than cowboys shooting. This man's a nuisance wherever he goes, For the world soon tires of the chap who blows. Whether mighty in station or hoer of corn, Unwelcome's the fellow who toots his own horn.

The poorest woodchopper makes the most sound; A poor cook clatters the most pans around; The rattling spoke carries least of the load; And jingling pennies pay little that's owed; A rooster crows but lays no eggs; A braggart blows but drives no pegs. He works out of harmony with any team, For others are skim milk and he is the cream. "The world," so far as he can see, "Consists of a few other folks and ME." He richly deserves to be held in scorn— The ridiculous fellow who toots his own horn.

Joseph Morris.



ON DOWN THE ROAD

Hazlitt said that the defeat of the Whigs could be read in the shifting and irresolute countenance of Charles James Fox, and the triumph of the Tories in Pitt's "aspiring nose." The empires of the Montezumas are conquered by men who, like Cortez, risk everything in the enterprise and make retreat impossible by burning their ships behind them.

Hold to the course, though the storms are about you; Stick to the road where the banner still flies; Fate and his legions are ready to rout you— Give 'em both barrels—and aim for their eyes.

Life's not a rose bed, a dream or a bubble, A living in clover beneath cloudless skies; And Fate hates a fighter who's looking for trouble, So give 'im both barrels—and shoot for the eyes.

Fame never comes to the loafers and sitters, Life's full of knots in a shifting disguise; Fate only picks on the cowards and quitters, So give 'em both barrels—and aim for the eyes.

Grantland Rice.

From "The Sportlight."



MEETIN' TROUBLE

Some students of biology planned a trick on their professor. They took the head of one beetle, the body of another of a totally different species, the wings of a third, the legs of a fourth. These members they carefully pasted together. Then they asked the professor what kind of bug the creature was. He answered promptly, "A humbug." Just such a monstrosity is trouble—especially future trouble. Some things about it are real, but the whole combined menace is only an illusion, not a thing which actually exists at all. Face the trouble itself; give no heed to that idea of it which invests it with a hundred dire calamities.

Trouble in the distance seems all-fired big— Sorter makes you shiver when you look at it a-comin'; Makes you wanter edge aside, er hide, er take a swig Of somethin' that is sure to set your worried head a-hummin'. Trouble in the distance is a mighty skeery feller— But wait until it reaches you afore you start to beller!

Trouble standin' in th' road and frownin' at you, black, Makes you feel like takin' to the weeds along the way; Wish to goodness you could turn and hump yerself straight back; Know 'twill be awful when he gets you close at bay! Trouble standin' in the road is bound to make you shy— But wait until it reaches you afore you start to cry!

Trouble face to face with you ain't pleasant, but you'll find That it ain't one-ha'f as big as fust it seemed to be; Stand up straight and bluff it out! Say, "I gotter a mind To shake my fist and skeer you off—you don't belong ter me!" Trouble face to face with you? Though you mayn't feel gay, Laugh at it as if you wuz—and it'll sneak away!

Everard Jack Appleton.

From "The Quiet Courage."



PRESS ON

The spirit that has tamed this continent is the spirit which says, "Press on." It appeals, not so much to men in the mass, as to individuals. There is only one way for mankind to go forward. Each individual must be determined that, come what will, he will never quail or recede.

Press on! Surmount the rocky steps, Climb boldly o'er the torrent's arch; He fails alone who feebly creeps, He wins who dares the hero's march. Be thou a hero! Let thy might Tramp on eternal snows its way, And through the ebon walls of night Hew down a passage unto day.

Press on! If once and twice thy feet Slip back and stumble, harder try; From him who never dreads to meet Danger and death they're sure to fly. To coward ranks the bullet speeds, While on their breasts who never quail, Gleams, guardian of chivalric deeds, Bright courage like a coat of mail.

Press on! If Fortune play thee false To-day, to-morrow she'll be true; Whom now she sinks she now exalts, Taking old gifts and granting new, The wisdom of the present hour Makes up the follies past and gone; To weakness strength succeeds, and power From frailty springs! Press on, press on!

Park Benjamin.



MY CREED

We all have a philosophy of life, whether or not we formulate it. Does it end in self, or does it include our relations and our duties to our fellows? General William Booth of the Salvation Army was once asked to send a Christmas greeting to his forces throughout the world. His life had been spent in unselfish service; over the cable he sent but one word—OTHERS.

This is my creed: To do some good, To bear my ills without complaining, To press on as a brave man should For honors that are worth the gaining; To seek no profits where I may, By winning them, bring grief to others; To do some service day by day In helping on my toiling brothers

This is my creed: To close my eyes To little faults of those around me; To strive to be when each day dies Some better than the morning found me; To ask for no unearned applause, To cross no river until I reach it; To see the merit of the cause Before I follow those who preach it.

This is my creed: To try to shun The sloughs in which the foolish wallow; To lead where I may be the one Whom weaker men should choose to follow. To keep my standards always high, To find my task and always do it; This is my creed—I wish that I Could learn to shape my action to it.

S.E. Kiser.



CO-OPERATION

"We must all hang together, or assuredly we shall all hang separately," Benjamin Franklin is reported to have said at the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

It ain't the guns nor armament, Nor funds that they can pay, But the close co-operation, That makes them win the day.

It ain't the individual, Nor the army as a whole, But the everlasting team-work Of every bloomin' soul.

J. Mason Knox.



THE NOBLE NATURE

There is a deceptive glamour about mere bigness. Quality may accompany quantity, but it need not. In fact good things are usually done up in small parcels. "I could eat you at a mouthful," roared a bulky opponent to the small and sickly Alexander H. Stephens. "If you did," replied Stephens quietly, "you'd have more brains in your belly than ever you had in your head."

It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make Man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere: A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night— It was the plant and flower of Light. In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures life may perfect be.

Ben Jonson.



DAYS OF CHEER

Edison says that genius is two parts inspiration, ninety-eight parts perspiration. So happiness is two parts circumstance, ninety-eight parts mental attitude.

"Feelin' fine," he used to say, Come a clear or cloudy day, Wave his hand, an' shed a smile, Keepin' sunny all th' while. Never let no bugbears grim Git a wrastle-holt o' him, Kep' a-smilin' rain or shine, Tell you he was "feelin' fine!"

"Feelin' fine," he used to say Wave his hand an' go his way. Never had no time to lose So he said, fighting blues. Had a twinkle in his eye Always when a-goin' by, Sort o' smile up into mine, Tell me he was "feelin' fine!"

"Feelin' fine," he'd allus say, An' th' sunshine seemed to stay Close by him, or else he shone With some sunshine of his own. Didn't seem no clouds could dim Any happiness for him, Allus seemed to have a line Out f'r gladness—"feelin' fine!"

"Feelin' fine," I've heard him say Half a dozen times a day, An' as many times I knowed He was bearin' up a load. But he never let no grim Troubles git much holt on him, Kep' his spirits jest like wine, Bubblin' up an' "feelin' fine!"

"Feelin' fine"—I hope he'll stay All his three score that-a-way, Lettin' his demeanor be Sech as you could have or me Ef we tried, an' went along Spillin' little drops o' song, Lettin' rosebuds sort o' twine O'er th' thorns and "feelin' fine."

James W. Foley.

From "Tales of the Trail."



DE SUNFLOWER AIN'T DE DAISY

"Know yourself," said the Greeks. "Be yourself," bade Marcus Aurelius. "Give yourself," taught the Master. Though the third precept is the noblest, the first and second are admirable also. The second is violated on all hands. Yet to be what nature planned us—to develop our own natural selves—is better than to copy those who are wittier or wiser or otherwise better endowed than we. Genuineness should always be preferred to imitation.

De sunflower ain't de daisy, and de melon ain't de rose; Why is dey all so crazy to be sumfin else dat grows? Jess stick to de place yo're planted, and do de bes yo knows; Be de sunflower or de daisy, de melon or de rose. Don't be what yo ain't, jess yo be what yo is, If yo am not what yo are den yo is not what you is, If yo're jess a little tadpole, don't yo try to be de frog; If yo are de tail, don't yo try to wag de dawg. Pass de plate if yo can't exhawt and preach; If yo're jess a little pebble, don't yo try to be de beach; When a man is what he isn't, den he isn't what he is, An' as sure as I'm talking, he's a-gwine to get his.

Anonymous.



THE DAFFODILS

The poet in lonely mood came suddenly upon a host of daffodils and was thrilled by their joyous beauty. But delightful as the immediate scene was, it was by no means the best part of his experience. For long afterwards, when he least expected it, memory brought back the flowers to the eye of his spirit, filled his solitary moments with thoughts of past happiness, and took him once more (so to speak) into the free open air and the sunshine. Just so for us the memory of happy sights we have seen comes back again to bring us pleasure.

I wander'd lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils, Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:— A Poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company! I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought;

For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth.



A LITTLE THANKFUL SONG

No man is without a reason to be thankful. If he lacks gratitude, the fault lies at least partly with himself.

For what are we thankful for? For this: For the breath and the sunlight of life For the love of the child, and the kiss On the lips of the mother and wife. For roses entwining, For bud and for bloom, And hopes that are shining Like stars in the gloom.

For what are we thankful for? For this: The strength and the patience of toil; For ever the dreams that are bliss— The hope of the seed in the soil. For souls that are whiter From day unto day; And lives that are brighter From going God's way.

For what are we thankful for? For all: The sunlight—the shadow—the song; The blossoms may wither and fall, But the world moves in music along! For simple, sweet living, (Tis love that doth teach it) A heaven forgiving And faith that can reach it!

Frank L. Stanton.

From "The Atlanta Constitution."



TWO RAINDROPS

(A FABLE)

An egotist is not only selfish; he is usually ridiculous as well, for he sets us to wondering as to any possible ground for his exalted opinion of himself. The real workers do not emphasize their superiority to other people, do not even emphasize the differences, but are grateful that they may share in humanity's privilege of rendering service.

Two little raindrops were born in a shower, And one was so pompously proud of his power, He got in his head an extravagant notion He'd hustle right off and swallow the ocean. A blade of grass that grew by the brook Called for a drink, but no notice he took Of such trifling things. He must hurry to be Not a mere raindrop, but the whole sea. A stranded ship needed water to float, But he could not bother to help a boat. He leaped in the sea with a puff and a blare— And nobody even knew he was there!

But the other drop as along it went Found the work to do for which it was sent: It refreshed the lily that drooped its head, And bathed the grass that was almost dead. It got under the ships and helped them along, And all the while sang a cheerful song. It worked every step of the way it went, Bringing joy to others, to itself content. At last it came to its journey's end, And welcomed the sea as an old-time friend. "An ocean," it said, "there could not be Except for the millions of drops like me."

Joseph Morris,



MY WAGE

We may as well aim high as low, ask much as little. The world will not miss what it gives us, and our reward will largely be governed by our demands.

I bargained with Life for a penny, And Life would pay no more, However I begged at evening When I counted my scanty store;

For Life is a just employer, He gives you what you ask, But once you have set the wages, Why, you must bear the task.

I worked for a menial's hire, Only to learn, dismayed, That any wage I had asked of Life, Life would have paid.

Jessie B. Rittenhouse.

From "The Door of Dreams."



THE GIFT

"Trust thyself," says Emerson; "every heart vibrates to that iron string." This is wholesome and inspiring advice, but there is, as always, another side to the question. Many a man falls into absurdities and mistakes because he cannot get outside of himself and look at himself from other people's eyes. We should cultivate the ability to see everything, including ourselves, from more than one standpoint.

O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us To see oursels as ithers see us! It wad frae mony a blunder free us, And foolish notion; What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, And ev'n devotion!

Robert Burns.



PROMETHEUS UNBOUND

In the poem from which this excerpt is taken, Prometheus the Titan has been cruelly tortured for opposing the malignant will of Jupiter. In the end Prometheus wins a complete outward victory. Better still, by his steadfastness and high purpose he has won a great inward triumph. The spirit that has actuated him and the nature of his achievement are expressed in the following lines.

To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite; To forgive wrongs darker than death or night; To defy Power, which seems omnipotent; To love, and bear; to hope till Hope creates From its own wreck the thing it contemplates; Neither to change, nor falter, nor repent; This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be Good, great and joyous, beautiful and free; This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and Victory.

Percy Bysshe Shelley.



VICTORY IN DEFEAT

The great, radiant souls of earth—the Davids, the Shakespeares, the Lincolns—know grief and affliction as well as joy and triumph. But adversity is never to them mere adversity; it

"Doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange";

and in the crucible of character their suffering itself is transmuted into song.

Defeat may serve as well as victory To shake the soul and let the glory out. When the great oak is straining in the wind, The boughs drink in new beauty, and the trunk Sends down a deeper root on the windward side. Only the soul that knows the mighty grief Can know the mighty rapture. Sorrows come To stretch out spaces in the heart for joy.

Edwin Markham.

From "The Shoes of Happiness, and Other Poems."



THE RICHER MINES

No man is so poor but that he is a stockholder. Yet many a man has no real riches; his stocks draw dividends in dollars and cents only.

When it comes to buying shares In the mines of earth, May I join the millionaires Who are rich in mirth.

Let me have a heavy stake In fresh mountain air— I will promise now to take All that you can spare.

When you're setting up your claim In the Mines of Glee, Don't forget to use my name— You can count on me.

Nothing better can be won, Freer from alloy, Than a bouncing claim in "Con- Solidated Joy."

You can have your Copper Stocks Gold and tin and coal— What I'd have within my box Has to do with Soul.

John Kendrick Bangs.

From "Songs of Cheer."



BRAVE LIFE

To be absolutely without physical fear may not be the highest courage; to shrink and quake, and yet stand at one's post, may be braver still. So of success. It lies less in the attainment of some external end than in holding yourself to your purposes and ideals; for out of high loyalty and effort comes that intangible thing called character, which is no mere symbol of success, but success itself.

I do not know what I shall find on out beyond the final fight; I do not know what I shall meet beyond the last barrage of night; Nor do I care—but this I know—if I but serve within the fold And play the game—I'll be prepared for all the endless years may hold.

Life is a training camp at best for what may wait beyond the years; A training camp of toiling days and nights that lean to dreams and tears; But each may come upon the goal, and build his soul above all Fate By holding an unbroken faith and taking Courage for a mate.

Is not the fight itself enough that man must look to some behest? Wherein does Failure miss Success if all engaged but do their best? Where does the Victor's cry come in for wreath of fame or laureled brow If one he vanquished fought as well as weaker muscle would allow?

If my opponent in the fray should prove to be a stronger foe— Not of his making—but because the Destinies ordained it so; If he should win—and I should lose—although I did my utmost part, Is my reward the less than his if he should strive with equal heart?

Brave Life, I hold, is something more than driving upward to the peak; Than smashing madly through the strong, and crashing onward through the weak; I hold the man who makes his fight against the raw game's crushing odds Is braver than his brothers are who hold the favor of the gods.

On by the sky line, faint and vague, in that Far Country all must know, No laurel crown of fame may wait beyond the sunset's glow; But life has given me the chance to train and serve within the fold, To meet the test—and be prepared for all the endless years may hold.

Grantland Rice.

From "The Sportlight."



A SONG OF TO-MORROW

A night's sleep and a new day—these are excellent things to look forward to when one is weary or in trouble.

Li'l bit er trouble, Honey, fer terday; Yander come Termorrer— Shine it all away!

Rainy Sky is sayin', "Dis'll never do! Fetch dem rainbow ribbons, En I'll dress in blue!"

Frank L. Stanton.

From "The Atlanta Constitution."



THE GLAD SONG

Gladness begins with the first person, with you. But it may spread far, like the ripples when you toss a stone in the water.

Sing a song, sing a song, Ring the glad-bells all along; Smile at him who frowns at you, He will smile and then they're two.

Laugh a bit, laugh a bit, Folks will soon be catching it, Can't resist a happy face; World will be a merry place.

Laugh a Bit and Sing a Song, Where they are there's nothing wrong; Joy will dance the whole world through, But it must begin with you.

Joseph Morris.



PAINTING THE LILY

Many people are not content to let well enough alone, but spoil what they have by striving for an unnecessary and foolish improvement. If they have a rich title, they try to ornament it still further; if they have refined gold, they try to gild it; if they have a lily, they try to paint it into still purer color.

Therefore, to be possessed with double pomp, To guard a title that was rich before, To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, To throw a perfume on the violet, To smooth the ice, or add another hue Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish, Is wasteful and ridiculous excess.

William Shakespeare.



A PRETTY GOOD WORLD

The world has its faults, but few of us would give it up till we have to.

Pretty good world if you take it all round— Pretty good world, good people! Better be on than under the ground— Pretty good world, good people! Better be here where the skies are as blue As the eyes of your sweetheart a-smilin' at you— Better than lyin' 'neath daisies and dew— Pretty good world, good people!

Pretty good world with its hopes and its fears— Pretty good world, good people! Sun twinkles bright through the rain of its tears— Pretty good world, good people! Better be here, in the pathway you know— Where the thorn's in the garden where sweet roses grow, Than to rest where you feel not the fall o' the snow— Pretty good world, good people!

Pretty good world! Let us sing it that way— Pretty good world, good people! Make up your mind that you're in it to stay— At least for a season, good people! Pretty good world, with its dark and its bright— Pretty good world, with its love and its light; Sing it that way till you whisper, "Good-night!"— Pretty good world, good people!

Frank L. Stanton.

From "The Atlanta Constitution."



ODE TO DUTY

In the first stanza the poet hails duty as coming from God. It is a light to guide us and a rod to check. To obey it does not lead to victory; to obey it is victory—is to live by a high, noble law. In the second stanza he admits that some people do right without driving themselves to it—do it by instinct and "the genial sense of youth." In stanza 3 he looks forward to a time when all people will be thus blessed, but he thinks that as yet it is unsafe for most of us to lose touch completely with stern, commanding duty. In stanzas 4 and 5 he states that he himself has been too impatient of control, has wearied himself by changing from one desire to another, and now wishes to regulate his life by some great abiding principle. In stanza 6 he declares that duty, though stern, is benignant; the flowers bloom in obedience to it, and the stars keep their places. In the final stanza he dedicates his life to its service.

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove; Thou who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe; From vain temptations dost set free, And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!

There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them; who, in love and truth Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth: Glad hearts! without reproach or blot, Who do thy work, and know it not: Oh! if through confidence misplaced They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.

Serene will be our days and bright And happy will our nature be When love is an unerring light, And joy its own security. And they a blissful course may hold Ev'n now, who, not unwisely bold, Live in the spirit of this creed; Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.

I, loving freedom, and untried, No sport of every random gust, Yet being to myself a guide, Too blindly have reposed my trust: And oft, when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferr'd The task, in smoother walks to stray; But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.

Through no disturbance of my soul Or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for thy control, But in the quietness of thought: Me this uncharter'd freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance-desires: My hopes no more must change their name; I long for a repose that ever is the same.

Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace, Nor know we anything so fair As is the smile upon thy face; Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, And fragrance in thy footing treads; Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong; And the most ancient Heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.

To humbler functions, awful Power! I call thee: I myself commend Unto thy guidance from this hour; Oh let my weakness have an end! Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice; The confidence of reason give; And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live.

William Wordsworth.



THE SYNDICATED SMILE

A ready and sincere friendliness is the one thing we can show to every human being, whether we know him or not. The world is full of perplexed and lonely people whom even a smile or a kind look will help. Yet that which is so easy to give we too often reserve for a few, and those perhaps the least appreciative.

I knew a girl who had a beau And his name wasn't Adams— No child of hers would ever call The present writer "daddums." I didn't love the girl, but still I found her most beguiling; And so did all the other chaps— She did it with her smiling. "I'm not a one-man girl," she said— "Of smiles my beau first took his; But some are left; I'll syndicate And pass them round like cookies."

That syndicated smile! When trouble seemed the most in style, It heartened us— That indicated, Syndicated Smile.

It's not enough to please your boss Or fawn round folks with bankrolls; Be just as friendly to the guys Whose homespun round their shank rolls. The best investment in the world Is goodwill, twenty carat; It costs you nothing, brings returns; So get yours out and air it. A niggard of good nature cheats Himself and wrongs his fellows. You'd serve mankind? Then be less close With friendly nods and helloes.

The syndicated smile! If you have kept it all the while, You've vindicated The indicated, Syndicated Smile.

St. Clair Adams.



FAIRY SONG

The great beneficent forces of life are not exhausted when once used, but are recurrent. The sun rises afresh each new day. Once a year the springtime returns and "God renews His ancient rapture." So it is with our joys. They do not stay by us constantly; they pass from us and are gone; but we need not trouble ourselves—they are sure to come back.

Shed no tear! O shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more! O weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root's white core. Dry your eyes! O dry your eyes, For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies— Shed no tear.

Overhead! look overhead, 'Mong the blossoms white and red— Look up, look up—I flutter now On this flush pomegranate bough. See me! 'tis this silvery bill Ever cures the good man's ill. Shed no tear! O shed no tear! The flowers will bloom another year. Adieu, adieu—I fly, adieu, I vanish in the heaven's blue— Adieu, adieu!

John Keats.



PRAISE THE GENEROUS GODS FOR GIVING

Some of us find joy in toil, some in art, some in the open air and the sunshine. All of us find it in simply being alive. Life is the gift no creature in his right mind would part with. As Milton asks,

"For who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, These thoughts that wander through eternity, To perish rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night, Devoid of sense and motion?"

Praise the generous gods for giving In a world of wrath and strife, With a little time for living, Unto all the joy of life.

At whatever source we drink it, Art or love or faith or wine, In whatever terms we think it, It is common and divine.

Praise the high gods, for in giving This to man, and this alone, They have made his chance of living Shine the equal of their own.

William Ernest Henley.



COWARDS

We might as well accept the inevitable as the inevitable. There is no escaping death or taxes.

Cowards die many times before their deaths: The valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, It seems to me most strange that men should fear; Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come, when it will come.