THE GRUMPY GUY

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

HE Grumpy Guy was feeling blue; the Grumpy

The Grumpy Guy with baleful eye took Misery for a chum.

He hailed misfortunes as his pals, and murmured, "Let 'em come!"

"Oh, what's the blooming use?" he yelped, his face an angry red,

"When everything's been thought before and everything's been said?

And what's a Grumpy Guy to do except to go to bed?

"And where's the joy the poets sing, the merriment and fun?

How can one start a thing that's new when everything's begun?

When everything's been planned before and everything's been done?

"When everything's been dreamed before and everything's been sought?

When everything that ever ran has, so to speak, been caught?

When every game's been played before and every battle fought?"

I started him at solitaire, a fooling, piffling game.
He played it ninety-seven hours and failed to find it

tame.

In all the times he dealt the cards no two games were the

same.

He never tumbled to its tricks nor mastered all its curves. He grunted, "Well, this takes the cake, the pickles and preserves!

Its infinite variety is getting on my nerves."

"Its infinite variety!" I scoffed. "Just fifty-two

Poor trifling bits of pasteboard!—their combinations few Compared to what there is in man!-the poorest!-even you!

"Variety! You'll never find in forty-seven decks

One tenth of the variety found in the gentler sex.
Card combinations are but frills to hang around their

necks.

"The sun won't rise to-morrow as it came to us to-day. 'Twill be older, we'll be older, and to Time this debt we

pay.

For nothing can repeat itself, for nothing knows the

way."

Then the Grumpy Guy was silent as a miser hoarding

pelf.

He knew 'twas time to put his grouch away upon the

shelf.

And so he did. You see, I was just talking to myself! Griffith Alexander.

Permission of the Author.
From "The Pittsburg Dispatch."

ΙΟΙ

THE FIGHTER

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

I

FIGHT a battle every day

Against discouragement and fear,
Some foe stands always in my way,
The path ahead is never clear!
I must forever be on guard

Against the doubts that skulk along;
I get ahead by fighting hard,
But fighting keeps my spirit strong.

I hear the croakings of Despair,
The dark predictions of the weak;
I find myself pursued by Care,
No matter what the end I seek;
My victories are small and few,

It matters not how hard I strive;
Each day the fight begins anew,
But fighting keeps my hopes alive.

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

I have to fight my doubts away,
And be on guard against my fears;
The feeble croaking of Dismay

Has been familiar through the years;
My dearest plans keep going wrong,
Events combine to thwart my will,

But fighting keeps my spirit strong,
And I am undefeated still!

Permission of the Author.

S. E. Kiser.

From "The New York American."

TO YOUTH AFTER PAIN

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

WHAT if this year has given

Grief that some year must bring,
What if it hurt your joyous youth,
Crippled your laughter's wing?
You always knew it was coming,
Coming to all, to you,

They always said there was suffering-
Now it is done, come through.

Even if you have blundered,

Even if you have sinned,

Still is the steadfast arch of the sky
And the healing veil of the wind

And after only a little,

A little of hurt and pain,

You shall have the web of your own old
dreams

Wrapping your heart again.

Only your heart can pity

Now, where it laughed and passed,
Now you can bend to comfort men,
One with them all at last,

You shall have back your laughter,
You shall have back your song,
Only the world is your brother now,
Only your soul is strong!

Margaret Widdemer.

From "The Old Road to Paradise,"

Henry Holt & Co.

CAN'T

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

"In the lexicon of youth, which fate reserves

For a bright manhood, there is no such word
As 'fail.""

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

CANDTing more harm here than slander and lies;

YAN'T is the worst word that's written or spoken;

On it is many a strong spirit broken,

And with it many a good purpose dies.

It springs from the lips of the thoughtless each morning
And robs us of courage we need through the day:

It rings in our ears like a timely-sent warning
And laughs when we falter and fall by the way.

Can't is the father of feeble endeavor,

The parent of terror and half-hearted work;
It weakens the efforts of artisans clever,
And makes of the toiler an indolent shirk.
It poisons the soul of the man with a vision,
It stifles in infancy many a plan;

It greets honest toiling with open derision

And mocks at the hopes and the dreams of a man.

Can't is a word none should speak without blushing;
To utter it should be a symbol of shame;
Ambition and courage it daily is crushing;

It blights a man's purpose and shortens his aim.
Despise it with all of your hatred of error;

Refuse it the lodgment it seeks in your brain;

Arm against it as a creature of terror,

And all that you dream of you some day shall gain.

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