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And the ruin of worlds that fall he views from eternal arches,

And rides God's battlefield in a flashing and golden car.

From "The Lyric Year,"

Mitchell Kennerley.

Sheamus O Sheel.


As necessity is the mother of invention, strong desire is the mother of attainment.

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Work day and night for it,

Give up your time and your peace and your sleep for it. If only desire of it

Makes you quite mad enough

Never to tire of it,

Makes you hold all other things tawdry and cheap for it

If life seems all empty and useless without it

And all that you scheme and you dream is about it,
If gladly you'll sweat for it,

Fret for it,

Plan for it,

Lose all your terror of God or man for it,

If you'll simply go after that thing that you want,
With all your capacity,

Strength and sagacity,

Faith, hope and confidence, stern pertinacity,
If neither cold poverty, famished and gaunt,
Nor sickness nor pain

Of body or brain

Can turn you away from the thing that you want,
If dogged and grim you besiege and beset it,

You'll get it!

From "Things As They Are,"
Copyright, 1916,

George H. Doran Co., Publishers.

Berton Braley.


The Duke of Wellington said that the battle of Waterloo was won on the cricket fields of Eton. English sport at its best is admirable; it asks outward triumph if possible, but far more it asks that one do his best till the very end and treat his opponent with courtesy and fairness. The spirit thus instilled at school has again and again been carried in after life into the large affairs of the nation.


HERE'S a breathless hush in the Close

Ten to make and the match to win-
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,

An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote;
"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"

The sand of the desert is sodden red

Red with the wreck of a square that broke;
The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,
And the regiment's blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,

And England's far and Honor a name,
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks,
"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"

This is the word that year by year,
While in her place the School is set,
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.

This they all with a joyful mind

Bear through life like a torch in flame,

And falling, fling to the host behind

"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"

From "Admirals All, and Other Verses,"

Henry Newbolt.

The John Lane Co.'


"Lord, what fools these mortals be!" exclaims Puck in A Midsummer Night's Dream. And well might the fairy marvel who sees folk vexing themselves over matters that nine times out of ten come to nothing. Much wiser is the man who smiles at misfortunes, even when they are real ones and affect him personally. Charles Lamb once cheerfully helped to hiss off the stage a play he himself had written.

THE maswallow, sour, and thin;

HE man who frets at worldly strife


Give us the lad whose happy life
Is one perpetual grin:

He, Midas-like, turns all to gold-
He smiles when others sigh,
Enjoys alike the hot and cold,

And laughs though wet or dry.

There's fun in everything we meet,-
The greatest, worst, and best;
Existence is a merry treat,

And every speech a jest:

So, come what may, the man's in luck
Who turns it all to glee,

And laughing, cries, with honest Puck,
"Good Lord! what fools ye be."

Joseph Rodman Drake.


Calmness of mind to face anything the future may have in store is expressed in this quatrain.

ERE'S a sigh to those who love me


And a smile to those who hate;

And whatever sky's above me,

Here's a heart for every fate.

Lord Byron.


An optimist has been described as a man who orders oysters at a restaurant and expects to find a pearl to pay the bill with. This of course is not optimism, but brazen brainlessness. Yet somehow the pearls come only to those who expect them.


YEAR ain't been the very best ;—

Purty hard by trouble pressed;

But the rough way leads to rest,-
Here's hopin'!

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Toward the end of the yacht race in which the America won her historic cup the English monarch, who was one of the spectators, inquired: "Which boat is first?" "The America seems to be first, your majesty," replied an aide. "And which is second?" asked the monarch. "Your majesty, there seems to be no second." So it is in the race for happiness. The man who is natural, who is open and kind of heart, is always first. The man who is merely rich or sheltered or proud is not even a good second.

CLEON a million clase, in a cottage 1;

LEON hath a million acres, ne'er a one have I;

Cleon hath a dozen fortunes, not a penny I;
Yet the poorer of the twain is Cleon, and not I.

Cleon, true, possesses acres, but the landscape I;
Half the charm to me it yieldeth money can not buy,
Cleon harbors sloth and dullness, freshening vigor I;
He in velvet, I in fustian, richer man am I.

Cleon is a slave to grandeur, free as thought am I;
Cleon fees a score of doctors, need of none have I;
Wealth-surrounded, care-environed, Cleon fears to die;
Death may come, he'll find me ready, happier man am I.

Cleon sees no charm in nature, in a daisy I;

Cleon hears no anthems ringing in the sea and sky;
Nature sings to me forever, earnest listener I;

State for state, with all attendants, who would change?

Not I.

Charles Mackay.

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