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The man of independent mind,

He looks and laughs at a' that.
A prince can mak a belted knight,

A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith he mauna fa' that!
For a' that, and a' that,

Their dignities, and a' that,
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,

Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,

As come it will for a' that;
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, and a' that.
For a' that and a' that,

It's coming yet, for a' that,
That man to man the warld o'er

Shall brothers be for a' that.

Robert Burns.


IFE! I know not what thou art,

But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met
I own to me a secret yet.
Life! We've been long together,
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ;
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear;
Perhaps will cost a sigh, a tear;

Then steal away, give little warning,
Choose thine own time;
Say not "Good Night"-but in some brighter clime,
Bid me "Good Morning!"

Anna Barbauld.


Many a man would die for wife and children, for faith, for country. But would he live for them? That, often, is the more heroic course—and the more sensible. A rich man was hiring a driver for his carriage. He asked each applicant how close he could drive to a precipice without toppling over. “One foot," "Six inches,” “Three inches," ran the replies. But an Irishman declared, “Faith, and I'd keep as far away from the place as I could.” "Consider yourself employed,” was the rich man's comment.

O he died for his faith. That is fine

More than most of us do.
But stay, can you add to that line

That he lived for it, too?

In death he bore witness at last

As a martyr to truth.
Did his life do the same in the past

From the days of his youth?

It is easy to die. Men have died

For a wish or a whim-
From bravado or passion or pride.

Was it harder for him?

But to live: every day to live out

All the truth that he dreamt,
While his friends met his conduct with doubt,

And the world with contempt

Was it thus that he plodded ahead,

Never turning aside ?
Then we'll talk of the life that he led-

Never mind how he died.

Ernest H. Crosby.

From "Swords and Ploughshares,"
Funk & Wagnalls Co.


At nightfall after bloody Antietam Lee's army, outnumbered and exhausted, lay with the Potomac at its back. So serious was the situation that all the subordinate officers advised retreat. But Lee, though too maimed to attack, would not leave the field save of his own volition. “If McClellan wants a battle,” he declared, "he can have it.” McClellan hesitated, and through the whole of the next day kept his great army idle. The effect upon the morale of the two forces, and the two governments, can be imagined.


The one

HE man who is there with the wallop and punch

who is trained to the minute, May well be around when the trouble begins,

But you seldom will find he is in it;
For they let him alone when they know he is there

For any set part in the ramble,
To pick out the one who is shrinking and soft

And not quite attuned to the scramble.

The one who is fixed for whatever they start

Is rarely expected to prove it;
They pass him along for the next shot in sight

Where they take a full wind-up and groove it;
For who wants to pick on a bulldog or such

Where a quivering poodle is handy,
When he knows he can win with a kick or a brick
With no further trouble to bandy?

Grantland Rice.
Permission of the Author.
From “The Sportlight."



BUILT a chimney for a comrade old,

I did the service not for hope or hire-
And then I traveled on in winter's cold,
Yet all the day I glowed before the fire.

Edwin Markham.
From "The Man with the Hoe, and Other Poems,"
Doubleday, Page & Co.


We often lose the happiness of to-day by brooding over the sorrows of yesterday or fearing the troubles of to-morrow. This is exceedingly foolish. There is always some pleasure at hand; seize it, and at no time will you be without pleasure. You cannot change the past, but your spirit at this moment will in some measure shape your future. Live life, therefore, in the present tense; do not miss the joys of to-day.

SURE, this world is full of trouble

Lord! I've had enough, an' double,

Reason for complaint.
Rain an' storm have come to fret me,

Skies were often gray;
Thorns an' brambles have beset me

On the road-but, say,
Ain't it fine to-day?

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What's the use of always weepin',

Makin' trouble last?
What's the use of always keepin'

Thinkin' of the past?
Each must have his tribulation,

Water with his wine.
Life it ain't no celebration.

Trouble? I've had mine

But to-day is fine.
It's to-day that I am livin',

Not a month ago,
Havin', losin', takin', givin',

As time wills it so.
Yesterday a cloud of sorrow

Fell across the way;
It may rain again to-morrow,

It may rain-but, say,
Ain't it fine to-day !

Douglas Malloch.
Permission of
Douglas Malloch.


We can calculate with fair accuracy the number of miles an automobile will go in an hour. We can gauge pretty closely the amount of merchandise a given sum of money will buy. But a good deed or a kind impulse is not measurable. Their influence works in devious ways and lives on when perhaps we can see them

no more.

I SHOT an arrow into the


It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.


“Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just,
And he but naked, though locked up in steel,

Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted," says Shakespeare. But not only does a clear conscience give power; it also gives light. With it we could sit at the center of the earth and yet enjoy the sunshine. Without it we live in a rayless prison.

E that has light within his own clear breast

, :

But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts
Benighted walks under the midday sun;
Himself is his own dungeon.

John Milton.

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