Dat bray of his was strong as wool- We's all des human, des common clay, Des needs a little help to make work play. I'se seen de simple spirit come from below; An' you gits on best yo'self, an' of this dey ain't When yo' practise de art of always helpin' out." Permission of the Author. William Judson Kibby. OPENING PARADISE We appreciate even the common things of life if we are denied them. EE the wretch, that long has tost SEE On the thorny bed of Pain, At length repair his vigor lost, And breathe and walk again: The meanest flow'r'et of the vale, The simplest note that swells the gale, Thomas Gray. TO THE MEN WHO LOSE When Captain Scott's ill-fated band, after reaching the South Pole, was struggling through the cold and storms back towards safety, the strength of Evans, one of the men, became exhausted. He had done his best-vainly. Now he did not wish to imperil his companions, already sorely tried. At a halting-place, there fore, he left them and, staggering out into a blizzard, perished alone. It was a failure, yes; but was it not also magnificent success? men lose! HERE'S though their work be e'er so nobly planned, And watched with zealous care, No glorious halo crowns their efforts grand, Here's to the men who lose! If triumph's easy smile our struggles greet, The king is he who, after fierce defeat, Here's to the men who lose! The ready plaudits of a fawning world Ring sweet in victor's ears; The vanquished's banners never are unfurled— Here's to the men who lose! The touchstone of true worth is not success; There is a higher test Though fate may darkly frown, onward to press, Here's to the men who lose! It is the vanquished's praises that I sing, "A hard-fought failure is a noble thing; Anonymous. IT MAY BE Many, many are the human struggles in which we can lend no aid. But if we cannot help, at least we need not hinder. T may be that you cannot stay His call for help, because you lack It may be that he has not won The course that he has found so hard; Permission of Not kick him down. S. E. Kiser S. E. Kiser, LIFE In life is necessarily much monotony, sameness. But our triumph may lie in putting richness and meaning into routine that apparently lacks them. ORENOON and afternoon and night,-Forenoon, And afternoon, and night,-Forenoon, and-what! The empty song repeats itself. No more? Yea, that is Life: make this forenoon sublime, This afternoon a psalm, this night a prayer, And Time is conquered, and thy crown is won. Edward Rowland Sill. From "Poems," THE GRUMPY GUY When students came, full of ambition, to the great scientist Agassiz, he gave each a fish and told him to find out what he could about it. They went to work and in a day or two were ready for their report. But Agassiz didn't come round. To kill time they went to work again, observed, dissected, conjectured, and when at the end of a fortnight Agassiz finally appeared, they felt that their knowledge was really exhaustive. The master's brief comment was that they had made a fair beginning, and again he left. They then fell to in earnest and after weeks and months of investigation declared that a fish was the most fascinating of studies. If our interest in life fails, it is not from material to work on. No two leaves are alike, not two human beings are alike, and if we are discerning, the attraction of any one of them is infinite. HE Grumpy Guy was feeling blue; the Grumpy TGuy was glum; The Grumpy Guy with baleful eye took Misery for a chum. He hailed misfortunes as his pals, and murmured, "Let 'em come!" "Oh, what's the blooming use?" he yelped, his face an angry red, "When everything's been thought before and everything's been said? And what's a Grumpy Guy to do except to go to bed? "And where's the joy the poets sing, the merriment and fun? How can one start a thing that's new when everything's begun ? When everything's been planned before and everything's been done? "When everything's been dreamed before and everything's been sought? When everything that ever ran has, so to speak, been caught? When every game's been played before and every battle fought?" I started him at solitaire, a fooling, piffling game. 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 iniser 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." |