OWNERSHIP

The true value of anything lies, not in the object itself or in its legal possession, but in our attitude to it. We may own a thing in fee simple, yet derive from it nothing but vexation. For those who have little, as indeed for those who have much, there are no surer means of happiness than enjoying that which they do not possess. Emerson shows us that two harvests may be gathered from every field—a material one by the man who raised the crop, and an esthetic or spiritual one by whosoever can see beauty or thrill with an inner satisfaction.

HEY ride in Packards, those swell guys,

THE

While I can't half afford a Ford;

Choice fillets fill a void for them,

We've cheese and prunes the place I board;
They've smirking servants hanging round,
You'd guess by whom my shoes are shined.
But all the same I'm rich as they,

For ownership's a state of mind.

They own, you say? Pshaw, they possess!
And what a fellow has, has him!

The rich can't stop and just enjoy

Their lawns and shrubs and house-fronts trim.

They're tied indoors and foot the bills;

I stroll or stray, as I'm inclined-
Possession was not meant for use,
But ownership's a state of mind.

The folks who have must try to keep
Against the thieves who swarm and steal;
They dare not stride, they mince along—
Their pavement's a banana peel.
Who owns, the jeweler or I,

Yon gems by window-bars confined?
Possession lies in locks and keys;
True ownership's a state of mind.

I own my office (I've a boss,
But so have all men-so has he);

The business is not mine, but yet
I own the whole blamed company;
Stockholders are less proud than I
When competition's auld lang syned.
What care I that the profit's theirs?
I have what counts-an owner's mind.

The pretty girls I meet are mine
(I do not choose to tell them so);
I own the flowers, the trees, the birds;
I own the sunshine and the snow;
I own the block, I own the town-
The smiles, the songs of humankind.
For ownership is how you feel;
It's just a healthy state of mind.

St. Clair Adams.

A SMILING PARADOX

Good nature or ill is like the loaves and fishes. The more we give away, the more we have.

And, strange to say,

Altho' my frowns with care I've stowed away,
To-night I'm poorer far in frowns than at the start;
While in my heart,

Wherein my treasures best I store,

I find my smiles increased by several score.

Permission of the Author.

From "Songs of Cheer."

John Kendrick Bangs.

THE NEW DUCKLING

There are people who, without having anything exceptional in their natures or purposes or visions, yet try to be different for the sake of being different. They are not content to be what they are; they wish to be "utterly other." Of course they are hollow, artificial, insincere; moreover they are nuisances. Their very foundations are wrong ones. Be yourself unless you're a fool; in that case, of course, try to be somebody else.

"I WANT to be new," said the duckling.

"O ho!" said the wise old owl,

While the guinea-hen cluttered off chuckling
To tell all the rest of the fowl.

"I should like a more elegant figure," That child of a duck went on.

"I should like to grow bigger and bigger, Until I could swallow a swan.

"I won't be the bond slave of habit,
I won't have these webs on my toes.
I want to run round like a rabbit,
A rabbit as red as a rose.

"I don't want to waddle like mother, Or quack like my silly old dad.

I want to be utterly other,

And frightfully modern and mad.”

"Do you know," said the turkey, "you're quacking! There's a fox creeping up thro' the rye;

And, if you're not utterly lacking,

You'll make for that duck-pond. Good-bye!"

But the duckling was perky as perky.
"Take care of your stuffing!" he called.
(This was horribly rude to a turkey!)
"But you aren't a real turkey," he bawled.

"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.

CAN YOU SING A SONG?

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,

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.

KNOW THYSELF

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."

R

EINED by an unseen tyrant's hand,

Spurred 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