LIONS AND ANTS

ONCE, a hunter met that lion mauled him was des

NCE a hunter met a lion near the hungry critter's

cidedly 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.

From "Walt Mason, His Book,"
Barse & Hopkins.

Walt Mason.

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.

THATEVER crazy sorrow saith,

WHAT

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 goodperhaps 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.

MUSIven a homely voice sounds good

USIC hath charms-at least it should;

a

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

OLD 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 beneati 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.

Permission of the Author.
From "The Sportlight."