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"You're an Early-Victorian Sparrow!
A fox is more fun than a sheep!
I shall show that my mind is not narrow
And give him my feathers-to keep."

Now the curious end of this fable,
So far as the rest ascertained,

Though they searched from the barn to the stable,
Was that only his feathers remained.

So he wasn't the bond slave of habit,

And he didn't have webs on his toes;

And perhaps he runs round like a rabbit,
A rabbit as red as a rose.

From "Collected Poems,"

Frederick A. Stokes Co.

Alfred Noyes.


Nothing lifts the spirit more than a song, especially the inward song of a worker who can sound it alike at the beginning of his task, in the heat of midday, and in the weariness and cool of the evening.

AN you sing a song to greet the sun,

Can you cheerily tackle the work to be done,
Can you vision it finished when only begun,
Can you sing a song?

Can you sing a song when the day's half through,
When even the thought of the rest wearies you,
With so little done and so much to do,

Can you sing a song?

Can you sing a song at the close of the day,
When weary and tired, the work's put away,
With the joy that it's done the best of the pay,
Can you sing a song?

Joseph Morris.


It seems impossible that human beings could endure so much until we realize that they have endured it. The spirit of man performs miracles; it transcends the limitations of flesh and blood. It is like Uncle Remus's account of Brer Rabbit climbing a tree. "A rabbit couldn't do that," the little boy protested. "He did," Uncle Remus responded; "he was jes' 'bleeged to."

EINED by an unseen tyrant's hand,

Rspurred by an unseen tyrant's will,
Aquiver at the fierce command
That goads you up the danger hill,
You cry: "O Fate, O Life, be kind!
Grant but an hour of respite-give
One moment to my suffering mind!
I can not keep the pace and live."
But Fate drives on and will not heed
The lips that beg, the feet that bleed.
Drives, while you faint upon the road,
Drives, with a menace for a goad;
With fiery reins of circumstance
Urging his terrible advance

The while you cry in your despair,
"The pain is more than I can bear!"

Fear not the goad, fear not the pace,
Plead not to fall from out the race-
It is your own Self driving you,
Your Self that you have never known,
Seeing your little self alone.

Your Self, high-seated charioteer,
Master of cowardice and fear,

Your Self that sees the shining length
Of all the fearful road ahead,
Knows that the terrors that you dread
Are pigmies to your splendid strength;
Strength you have never even guessed,
Strength that has never needed rest.
Your Self that holds the mastering rein,
Seeing beyond the sweat and pain

And anguish of your driven soul,
The patient beauty of the goal!

Fighting upon the terror field

Where man and Fate came breast to breast,
Prest by a thousand foes to yield,
Tortured and wounded without rest,
You cried: "Be merciful, O Life—
The strongest spirit soon must break
Before this all-unequal strife,

This endless fight for failure's sake!"
But Fate, unheeding, lifted high

His sword, and thrust you through to die,
And then there came one strong and great,
Who towered high o'er Chance and Fate,
Who bound your wound and eased your pain
And bade you rise and fight again.
And from some source you did not guess
Gushed a great tide of happiness-
A courage mightier than the sun-
You rose and fought and, fighting, won!

It was your own Self saving you,
Your Self no man has ever known,
Looking on flesh and blood alone.
That Self that lives so close to God
As roots that feed upon the sod.

That one who stands behind the screen,
Looks through the window of your eyes→

A being out of Paradise.

The Self no human eye has seen,

The living one who never tires,

Fed by the deep eternal fires.

Your flaming Self, with two-edged sword,

Made in the likeness of the Lord,

Angel and guardian at the gate,

Master of Death and King of Fate!

From "The Hour Has Struck,"

The John Lane Co.

Angela Morgan.


There is a psychological benefit in the mere physical act of whistling. When the body makes music, the spirit falls into harmonies too and the discords that assail us cease to make them. selves heard.

WHEN times are bad an' folks are sad


An' gloomy day by day,

Jest try your best at lookin' glad
An' whistle 'em away.

Don't mind how troubles bristle,

Jest take a rose or thistle.
Hold your own

An' change your tone

An' whistle, whistle, whistle!

A song is worth a world o' sighs.
When red the lightnings play,
Look for the rainbow in the skies
An' whistle 'em away.

Don't mind how troubles bristle,
The rose comes with the thistle.
Hold your own

An' change your tone

An' whistle, whistle, whistle!

Each day comes with a life that's new,
A strange, continued story

But still beneath a bend o' blue

The world rolls on to glory.

Don't mind how troubles bristle,

Jest take a rose or thistle.
Hold your own

An' change your tone

An' whistle, whistle, whistle!

"The Atlanta Constitution."

Printed in and permission from

Frank L. Stanton.


"Yes, it's pretty hard," the optimistic old woman admitted. "I have to get along with only two teeth, one in the upper jaw and one in the lower-but thank God, they meet."

ERE'S to "The days that might have been";
Here's to "The life I might have led";

The fame I might have gathered in-
The glory ways I might have sped.
Great "Might Have Been," I drink to you
Upon a throne where thousands hail-
And then-there looms another view-
I also "might have been" in jail.

O "Land of Might Have Been," we turn
With aching hearts to where you wait;
Where crimson fires of glory burn,

And laurel crowns the guarding gate;
We may not see across your fields

The sightless skulls that knew their woe→
The broken spears-the shattered shields-
That "might have been" as truly so.

"Of all sad words of tongue or pen❞—
So wails the poet in his pain-
The saddest are, "It might have been,"
And world-wide runs the dull refrain.
The saddest? Yes-but in the jar

This thought brings to me with its curse,
I sometimes think the gladdest are

"It might have been a blamed sight worse."

Grantland Rice.

Permission of the Author.
From "The Sportlight."

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