Chapter 11

Nothing to comb but hair, Nowhere to sleep but in bed, Nothing to weep but tears, Nothing to bury but dead.

Nothing to sing but songs, Ah, well, alas! alack! Nowhere to go but out, Nowhere to come but back.

Nothing to see but sights, Nothing to quench but thirst, Nothing to have but what we've got; Thus thro' life we are cursed.

Nothing to strike but a gait; Everything moves that goes. Nothing at all but common sense Can ever withstand these woes.

_Ben King_.

From "Ben King's Verse."

A PROBLEM TO BE SOLVED

There are irritating, troublesome people about us. Of what use is it to be irritating in our turn or to add to the trouble? Most offenders have their better side. Our wisest course is to find this and upon the basis of it build up a better relationship.

There's a fellow in your office Who complains and carps and whines Till you'd almost do a favor To his heirs and his assigns. But I'll tip you to a secret (And this chap's of course involved)-- He's no foeman to be fought with; He's a problem to be solved.

There's a duffer in your district Whose sheer cussedness is such He has neither pride nor manners-- No, nor gumption, overmuch. 'Twould be great to up and tell him Where to go. But be resolved-- He's no foeman to be fought with, Just a problem to be solved.

This old earth's (I'm sometimes thinking) One menagerie of freaks-- Folks invested with abnormal Lungs or brains or galls or beaks. But we're not just shrieking monkeys In a dim, vast cage revolved; We're not foemen to be fought with, Merely problems to be solved.

_St. Clair Adams_.

PROSPICE

Here the poet looks forward to death. He does not ask for an easy death; he does not wish to creep past an experience which all men sooner or later must face, and which many men have faced so heroically. He has fought well in life; he wishes to make the last fight too. The poem was written shortly after the death of Mrs. Browning, and the closing lines refer to her.

Fear death?--to feel the fog in my throat, The mist in my face, When the snows begin, and the blasts denote I am nearing the place, The power of the night, the press of the storm, The post of the foe; Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, Yet the strong man must go: For the journey is done and the summit attained, And the barriers fall, Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, The reward of it all. I was ever a fighter, so--one fight more, The best and the last! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore. And bade me creep past. No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers The heroes of old, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears Of pain, darkness and cold. For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, The black minute's at end, And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, Shall dwindle, shall blend, Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, Then a light, then thy breast, O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, And with God be the rest!

_Robert Browning_.

THE GREATNESS OF THE SOUL

Geologists tell us that in the long processes of the ages mountains have been raised and leveled, continents formed and washed away. Astronomers tell us that in space are countless worlds, many of them doubtless inhabited--perhaps by creatures of a lower type than we, perhaps by creatures of a higher. The magnitude of these changes and of these worlds makes the imagination reel. But on one thing we can rely--the greatness of the human soul. On one thing we can confidently build--the men whose spirit is lofty, divine.

For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill And break the shore, and evermore Make and break, and work their will; Tho' world on world in myriad myriads roll Round us, each with different powers, And other forms of life than ours, What know we greater than the soul? On God and Godlike men we build our trust.

_Alfred Tennyson_.

HEINELET

What sheer perseverance can accomplish, even in matters of the heart, is revealed in this little poem written in Heine's mood of mingled seriousness and gayety.

He asked if she ever could love him. She answered him, no, on the spot. He asked if she ever could love him. She assured him again she could not.

He asked if she ever could love him. She laughed till his blushes he hid. He asked if she ever could love him. By God, she admitted she did.

_Gamaliel Bradford_.

From "Shadow Verses."

STAND FORTH!

The human spirit can triumph over difficulties, as flowers bloom along the edge of the Alpine snow.

Stand forth, my soul, and grip thy woe, Buckle the sword and face thy foe. What right hast thou to be afraid When all the universe will aid? Ten thousand rally to thy name, Horses and chariots of flame. Do others fear? Do others fail? _My soul must grapple and prevail_. My soul must scale the mountainside And with the conquering army ride-- Stand forth, my soul!

Stand forth, my soul, and take command. 'Tis I, thy master, bid thee stand. Claim thou thy ground and thrust thy foe, Plead not thine enemy should go. Let others cringe! My soul is free, No hostile host can conquer me. There lives no circumstance so great Can make me yield, or doubt my fate. My soul must know what kings have known. Must reach and claim its rightful throne-- Stand forth, my soul!

I ask no truce, I have no qualms, I seek no quarter and no alms. Let those who will obey the sod, My soul sprang from the living God. 'Tis I, the king, who bid thee stand; Grasp with thy hand my royal hand-- Stand forth!

_Angela Morgan_.

From "The Hour Has Struck."

LIONS AND ANTS

Once a hunter met a lion near the hungry critter's lair, and the way that lion mauled him was decidedly 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.

_Walt Mason_.

From "Walt Mason, His Book."

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.

Whatever crazy sorrow saith, 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 good--perhaps 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.

Music hath charms--at least it should; Even a homely voice sounds good 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 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 beneath 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_.

From "The Sportlight."

MEETIN' TROUBLE

Some students of biology planned a trick on their professor. They took the head of one beetle, the body of another of a totally different species, the wings of a third, the legs of a fourth. These members they carefully pasted together. Then they asked the professor what kind of bug the creature was. He answered promptly, "A humbug." Just such a monstrosity is trouble--especially future trouble. Some things about it are real, but the whole combined menace is only an illusion, not a thing which actually exists at all. Face the trouble itself; give no heed to that idea of it which invests it with a hundred dire calamities.

Trouble in the distance seems all-fired big-- Sorter makes you shiver when you look at it a-comin'; Makes you wanter edge aside, er hide, er take a swig Of somethin' that is sure to set your worried head a-hummin'. Trouble in the distance is a mighty skeery feller-- But wait until it reaches you afore you start to beller!

Trouble standin' in th' road and frownin' at you, black, Makes you feel like takin' to the weeds along the way; Wish to goodness you could turn and hump yerself straight back; Know 'twill be awful when he gets you close at bay! Trouble standin' in the road is bound to make you shy-- But wait until it reaches you afore you start to cry!

Trouble face to face with you ain't pleasant, but you'll find That it ain't one-ha'f as big as fust it seemed to be; Stand up straight and bluff it out! Say, "I gotter a mind To shake my fist and skeer you off--you don't belong ter me!" Trouble face to face with you? Though you mayn't feel gay, Laugh at it as if you wuz--and it'll sneak away!

_Everard Jack Appleton_.

From "The Quiet Courage."

PRESS ON

The spirit that has tamed this continent is the spirit which says, "Press on." It appeals, not so much to men in the mass, as to individuals. There is only one way for mankind to go forward. Each individual must be determined that, come what will, he will never quail or recede.

Press on! Surmount the rocky steps, Climb boldly o'er the torrent's arch; He fails alone who feebly creeps, He wins who dares the hero's march. Be thou a hero! Let thy might Tramp on eternal snows its way, And through the ebon walls of night Hew down a passage unto day.

Press on! If once and twice thy feet Slip back and stumble, harder try; From him who never dreads to meet Danger and death they're sure to fly. To coward ranks the bullet speeds, While on their breasts who never quail, Gleams, guardian of chivalric deeds, Bright courage like a coat of mail.

Press on! If Fortune play thee false To-day, to-morrow she'll be true; Whom now she sinks she now exalts, Taking old gifts and granting new, The wisdom of the present hour Makes up the follies past and gone; To weakness strength succeeds, and power From frailty springs! Press on, press on!

_Park Benjamin_.

MY CREED

We all have a philosophy of life, whether or not we formulate it. Does it end in self, or does it include our relations and our duties to our fellows? General William Booth of the Salvation Army was once asked to send a Christmas greeting to his forces throughout the world. His life had been spent in unselfish service; over the cable he sent but one word--OTHERS.

This is my creed: To do some good, To bear my ills without complaining, To press on as a brave man should For honors that are worth the gaining; To seek no profits where I may, By winning them, bring grief to others; To do some service day by day In helping on my toiling brothers

This is my creed: To close my eyes To little faults of those around me; To strive to be when each day dies Some better than the morning found me; To ask for no unearned applause, To cross no river until I reach it; To see the merit of the cause Before I follow those who preach it.

This is my creed: To try to shun The sloughs in which the foolish wallow; To lead where I may be the one Whom weaker men should choose to follow. To keep my standards always high, To find my task and always do it; This is my creed--I wish that I Could learn to shape my action to it.

_S.E. Kiser._

CO-OPERATION

"We must all hang together, or assuredly we shall all hang separately," Benjamin Franklin is reported to have said at the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

It ain't the guns nor armament, Nor funds that they can pay, But the close co-operation, That makes them win the day.

It ain't the individual, Nor the army as a whole, But the everlasting team-work Of every bloomin' soul.

_J. Mason Knox_.

THE NOBLE NATURE

There is a deceptive glamour about mere bigness. Quality may accompany quantity, but it need not. In fact good things are usually done up in small parcels. "I could eat you at a mouthful," roared a bulky opponent to the small and sickly Alexander H. Stephens. "If you did," replied Stephens quietly, "you'd have more brains in your belly than ever you had in your head."

It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make Man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere: A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night-- It was the plant and flower of Light. In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures life may perfect be.

_Ben Jonson_.

DAYS OF CHEER

Edison says that genius is two parts inspiration, ninety-eight parts perspiration. So happiness is two parts circumstance, ninety-eight parts mental attitude.

"Feelin' fine," he used to say, Come a clear or cloudy day, Wave his hand, an' shed a smile, Keepin' sunny all th' while. Never let no bugbears grim Git a wrastle-holt o' him, Kep' a-smilin' rain or shine, Tell you he was "feelin' fine!"

"Feelin' fine," he used to say Wave his hand an' go his way. Never had no time to lose So he said, fighting blues. Had a twinkle in his eye Always when a-goin' by, Sort o' smile up into mine, Tell me he was "feelin' fine!"

"Feelin' fine," he'd allus say, An' th' sunshine seemed to stay Close by him, or else he shone With some sunshine of his own. Didn't seem no clouds could dim Any happiness for him, Allus seemed to have a line Out f'r gladness--"feelin' fine!"

"Feelin' fine," I've heard him say Half a dozen times a day, An' as many times I knowed He was bearin' up a load. But he never let no grim Troubles git much holt on him, Kep' his spirits jest like wine, Bubblin' up an' "feelin' fine!"

"Feelin' fine"--I hope he'll stay All his three score that-a-way, Lettin' his demeanor be Sech as you could have or me Ef we tried, an' went along Spillin' little drops o' song, Lettin' rosebuds sort o' twine O'er th' thorns and "feelin' fine."

_James W. Foley_.

From "Tales of the Trail."

DE SUNFLOWER AIN'T DE DAISY

"Know yourself," said the Greeks. "Be yourself," bade Marcus Aurelius. "Give yourself," taught the Master. Though the third precept is the noblest, the first and second are admirable also. The second is violated on all hands. Yet to be what nature planned us--to develop our own natural selves--is better than to copy those who are wittier or wiser or otherwise better endowed than we. Genuineness should always be preferred to imitation.

De sunflower ain't de daisy, and de melon ain't de rose; Why is dey all so crazy to be sumfin else dat grows? Jess stick to de place yo're planted, and do de bes yo knows; Be de sunflower or de daisy, de melon or de rose. Don't be what yo ain't, jess yo be what yo is, If yo am not what yo are den yo is not what you is, If yo're jess a little tadpole, don't yo try to be de frog; If yo are de tail, don't yo try to wag de dawg. Pass de plate if yo can't exhawt and preach; If yo're jess a little pebble, don't yo try to be de beach; When a man is what he isn't, den he isn't what he is, An' as sure as I'm talking, he's a-gwine to get his.

_Anonymous_.

THE DAFFODILS

The poet in lonely mood came suddenly upon a host of daffodils and was thrilled by their joyous beauty. But delightful as the immediate scene was, it was by no means the best part of his experience. For long afterwards, when he least expected it, memory brought back the flowers to the eye of his spirit, filled his solitary moments with thoughts of past happiness, and took him once more (so to speak) into the free open air and the sunshine. Just so for us the memory of happy sights we have seen comes back again to bring us pleasure.

I wander'd lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils, Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:-- A Poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company! I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought;

For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

_William Wordsworth._

A LITTLE THANKFUL SONG

No man is without a reason to be thankful. If he lacks gratitude, the fault lies at least partly with himself.

For what are we thankful for? For this: For the breath and the sunlight of life For the love of the child, and the kiss On the lips of the mother and wife. For roses entwining, For bud and for bloom, And hopes that are shining Like stars in the gloom.

For what are we thankful for? For this: The strength and the patience of toil; For ever the dreams that are bliss-- The hope of the seed in the soil. For souls that are whiter From day unto day; And lives that are brighter From going God's way.

For what are we thankful for? For all: The sunlight--the shadow--the song; The blossoms may wither and fall, But the world moves in music along! For simple, sweet living, (Tis love that doth teach it) A heaven forgiving And faith that can reach it!

_Frank L. Stanton._

From "The Atlanta Constitution."

TWO RAINDROPS

(A FABLE)

An egotist is not only selfish; he is usually ridiculous as well, for he sets us to wondering as to any possible ground for his exalted opinion of himself. The real workers do not emphasize their superiority to other people, do not even emphasize the differences, but are grateful that they may share in humanity's privilege of rendering service.

Two little raindrops were born in a shower, And one was so pompously proud of his power, He got in his head an extravagant notion He'd hustle right off and swallow the ocean. A blade of grass that grew by the brook Called for a drink, but no notice he took Of such trifling things. He must hurry to be Not a mere raindrop, but the whole sea. A stranded ship needed water to float, But he could not bother to help a boat. He leaped in the sea with a puff and a blare-- And nobody even knew he was there!

But the other drop as along it went Found the work to do for which it was sent: It refreshed the lily that drooped its head, And bathed the grass that was almost dead. It got under the ships and helped them along, And all the while sang a cheerful song. It worked every step of the way it went, Bringing joy to others, to itself content. At last it came to its journey's end, And welcomed the sea as an old-time friend. "An ocean," it said, "there could not be Except for the millions of drops like me."

_Joseph Morris,_

MY WAGE

We may as well aim high as low, ask much as little. The world will not miss what it gives us, and our reward will largely be governed by our demands.

I bargained with Life for a penny, And Life would pay no more, However I begged at evening When I counted my scanty store;

For Life is a just employer, He gives you what you ask, But once you have set the wages, Why, you must bear the task.

I worked for a menial's hire, Only to learn, dismayed, That any wage I had asked of Life, Life would have paid.

_Jessie B. Rittenhouse._

From "The Door of Dreams."

THE GIFT

"Trust thyself," says Emerson; "every heart vibrates to that iron string." This is wholesome and inspiring advice, but there is, as always, another side to the question. Many a man falls into absurdities and mistakes because he cannot get outside of himself and look at himself from other people's eyes. We should cultivate the ability to see everything, including ourselves, from more than one standpoint.

O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us To see oursels as ithers see us! It wad frae mony a blunder free us, And foolish notion; What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, And ev'n devotion!

_Robert Burns._

PROMETHEUS UNBOUND