Chapter 3
Melancholy, Melancholy, I've no use for you, by Golly! Yet I'm going to keep you hidden In some chamber dark, forbidden, Just as though you were a prize, sir, Made of gold, and I a miser-- Not because I think you jolly, Melancholy! Not for that I mean to hoard you, Keep you close and lodge and board you As I would my sisters, brothers, Cousins, aunts, and old grandmothers, But that you shan't bother others With your sniffling, snuffling folly, Howling, Yowling, Melancholy.
_John Kendrick Bangs._
From "Songs of Cheer."
THE LION PATH
Admiral Dupont was explaining to Farragut his reasons for not taking his ironclads into Charleston harbor. "You haven't given me the main reason yet," said Farragut. "What's that?" "You didn't think you could do it." So the man who thinks he can't pass a lion, can't. But the man who thinks he can, can. Indeed he oftentimes finds that the lion isn't really there at all.
I dare not!-- Look! the road is very dark-- The trees stir softly and the bushes shake, The long grass rustles, and the darkness moves Here! there! beyond--! There's something crept across the road just now! And you would have me go--? Go _there_, through that live darkness, hideous With stir of crouching forms that wait to kill? Ah, _look_! See there! and there! and there again! Great yellow, glassy eyes, close to the ground! Look! Now the clouds are lighter I can see The long slow lashing of the sinewy tails, And the set quiver of strong jaws that wait--! Go there? Not I! Who dares to go who sees So perfectly the lions in the path?
Comes one who dares. Afraid at first, yet bound On such high errand as no fear could stay. Forth goes he, with lions in his path. And then--? He dared a death of agony-- Outnumbered battle with the king of beasts-- Long struggles in the horror of the night-- Dared, and went forth to meet--O ye who fear! Finding an empty road, and nothing there-- And fences, and the dusty roadside trees-- Some spitting kittens, maybe, in the grass.
_Charlotte Perkins Gilman._
From "In This Our World."
THE ANSWER
Bob Fitzsimmons lacked the physical bulk of the men he fought, was ungainly in build and movement, and not infrequently got himself floored in the early rounds of his contests. But many people consider him the best fighter for his weight who ever stepped into the prize ring. Not a favorite at first, he won the popular heart by making good. Of course he had great natural powers; from any position when the chance at last came he could dart forth a sudden, wicked blow that no human being could withstand. But more formidable still was the spirit which gave him cool and complete command of all his resources, and made him most dangerous when he was on the verge of being knocked out.
When the battle breaks against you and the crowd forgets to cheer When the Anvil Chorus echoes with the essence of a jeer; When the knockers start their panning in the knocker's nimble way With a rap for all your errors and a josh upon your play-- There is one quick answer ready that will nail them on the wing; There is one reply forthcoming that will wipe away the sting; There is one elastic come-back that will hold them, as it should-- Make good.
No matter where you finish in the mix-up or the row, There are those among the rabble who will pan you anyhow; But the entry who is sticking and delivering the stuff Can listen to the yapping as he giggles up his cuff; The loafer has no come-back and the quitter no reply When the Anvil Chorus echoes, as it will, against the sky; But there's one quick answer ready that will wrap them in a hood-- Make good.
_Grantland Rice._
From "The Sportlight."
THE WORLD IS AGAINST ME
Babe Ruth doesn't complain that opposing pitchers try to strike him out; he swings at the ball till he swats it for four bases. Ty Cobb doesn't complain that whole teams work wits and muscles overtime to keep him from stealing home; he pits himself against them all and comes galloping or hurdling or sliding in. What other men can do any man can do if he works long enough with a brave enough heart.
"The world is against me," he said with a sigh. "Somebody stops every scheme that I try. The world has me down and it's keeping me there; I don't get a chance. Oh, the world is unfair! When a fellow is poor then he can't get a show; The world is determined to keep him down low."
"What of Abe Lincoln?" I asked. "Would you say That he was much richer than you are to-day? He hadn't your chance of making his mark, And his outlook was often exceedingly dark; Yet he clung to his purpose with courage most grim And he got to the top. Was the world against him?
"What of Ben Franklin? I've oft heard it said That many a time he went hungry to bed. He started with nothing but courage to climb, But patiently struggled and waited his time. He dangled awhile from real poverty's limb, Yet he got to the top. Was the world against him?
"I could name you a dozen, yes, hundreds, I guess, Of poor boys who've patiently climbed to success; All boys who were down and who struggled alone, Who'd have thought themselves rich if your fortune they'd known; Yet they rose in the world you're so quick to condemn, And I'm asking you now, was the world against them?"
_Edgar A. Guest._
From "Just Folks."
SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH
In any large or prolonged enterprise we are likely to take too limited a view of the progress we are making. The obstacles do not yield at some given point; we therefore imagine we have made no headway. The poet here uses three comparisons to show the folly of accepting this hasty and partial evidence. A soldier may think, from the little part of the battle he can see, that the day is going against him; but by holding his ground stoutly he may help his comrades in another quarter to win the victory. Successive waves may seem to rise no higher on the land, but far back in swollen creek and inlet is proof that the tide is coming in. As we look toward the east, we are discouraged at the slowness of daybreak; but by looking westward we see the whole landscape illumined.
Say not the struggle nought availeth, The labor and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been they remain.
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; It may be, in yon smoke conceal'd, Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, And, but for you, possess the field.
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light, In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, But westward, look, the land is bright.
_Arthur Hugh Clough._
WORTH WHILE
A little boy whom his mother had rebuked for not turning a deaf ear to temptation protested, with tears, that he had no deaf ear. But temptation, even when heard, must somehow be resisted. Yea, especially when heard! We deserve no credit for resisting it unless it comes to our ears like the voice of the siren.
It is easy enough to be pleasant, When life flows by like a song, But the man worth while is one who will smile, When everything goes dead wrong. For the test of the heart is trouble, And it always comes with the years, And the smile that is worth the praises of earth, Is the smile that shines through tears.
It is easy enough to be prudent, When nothing tempts you to stray, When without or within no voice of sin Is luring your soul away; But it's only a negative virtue Until it is tried by fire, And the life that is worth the honor on earth, Is the one that resists desire.
By the cynic, the sad, the fallen, Who had no strength for the strife, The world's highway is cumbered to-day, They make up the sum of life. But the virtue that conquers passion, And the sorrow that hides in a smile, It is these that are worth the homage on earth For we find them but once in a while.
_Ella Wheeler Wilcox._
From "Poems of Sentiment."
HOPE
Gloom and despair are really ignorance in another form. They fail to reckon with the fact that what appears to be baneful often turns out to be good. Lincoln lost the senatorship to Douglas and thought he had ended his career; had he won the contest, he might have remained only a senator. Life often has surprise parties for us. Things come to us masked in gloom and black; but Time, the revealer, strips off the disguise, and lo, what we have is blessings.
Never go gloomy, man with a mind, Hope is a better companion than fear; Providence, ever benignant and kind, Gives with a smile what you take with a tear; All will be right, Look to the light. Morning was ever the daughter of night; All that was black will be all that is bright, Cheerily, cheerily, then cheer up.
Many a foe is a friend in disguise, Many a trouble a blessing most true, Helping the heart to be happy and wise, With love ever precious and joys ever new. Stand in the van, Strike like a man! This is the bravest and cleverest plan; Trusting in God while you do what you can. Cheerily, cheerily, then cheer up.
_Anonymous._
I'M GLAD
I'm glad the sky is painted blue; And the earth is painted green; And such a lot of nice fresh air All sandwiched in between.
_Anonymous._
THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS
The nautilus is a small mollusk that creeps upon the bottom of the sea, though it used to be supposed to swim, or even to spread a kind of sail so that the wind might drive it along the surface. What interests us in this poem is the way the nautilus _grows_. Just as a tree when sawed down has the record of its age in the number of its rings, so does the nautilus measure its age by the ever-widening compartments of its shell. These it has successively occupied. The poet, looking upon the now empty shell, thinks of human life as growing in the same way. We advance from one state of being to another, each nobler than the one which preceded it, until the spirit leaves its shell altogether and attains a glorious and perfect freedom.
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sailed the unshadowed main,-- The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.
Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed,-- Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!
Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.
Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:--
Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!
_Oliver Wendell Holmes._
PIPPA'S SONG
This little song vibrates with an optimism that embraces the whole universe. A frequent error in quoting it is the substitution of the word _well_ for _right_. Browning is no such shallow optimist as to believe that all is well with the world, but he does maintain that things are right with the world, for in spite of its present evils it is slowly working its way toward perfection, and in the great scheme of things it may make these evils themselves an instrument to move it toward its ultimate goal.
The year's at the spring And day's at the morn; Morning's at seven; The hillside's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn; God's in his heaven-- All's right with the world.
_Robert Browning._
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.
They ride in Packards, those swell guys, 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.
I've squandered smiles to-day, 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.
_John Kendrick Bangs._
From "Songs of Cheer."
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.
_Alfred Noyes._
From "Collected Poems."
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.
Can you sing a song to greet the sun, Can 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."
Reined 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 And anguish of your driven soul, The patient beauty of the goal!
Fighting upon the terror field Where man and Fate came breast to breast, Prest by a thousand foes to yield, Tortured and wounded without rest, You cried: "Be merciful, O Life-- The strongest spirit soon must break Before this all-unequal strife, This endless fight for failure's sake!" But Fate, unheeding, lifted high His sword, and thrust you through to die, And then there came one strong and great, Who towered high o'er Chance and Fate, Who bound your wound and eased your pain And bade you rise and fight again. And from some source you did not guess Gushed a great tide of happiness-- A courage mightier than the sun-- You rose and fought and, fighting, won!
It was your own Self saving you, Your Self no man has ever known, Looking on flesh and blood alone. That Self that lives so close to God As roots that feed upon the sod. That one who stands behind the screen, Looks through the window of your eyes-- A being out of Paradise. The Self no human eye has seen, The living one who never tires, Fed by the deep eternal fires. Your flaming Self, with two-edged sword, Made in the likeness of the Lord, Angel and guardian at the gate, Master of Death and King of Fate!
_Angela Morgan._
From "The Hour Has Struck."
JUST WHISTLE
There is a psychological benefit in the mere physical act of whistling. When the body makes music, the spirit falls into harmonies too and the discords that assail us cease to make themselves heard.
When times are bad an' folks are sad An' gloomy day by day, Jest try your best at lookin' glad An' whistle 'em away.
Don't mind how troubles bristle, Jest take a rose or thistle. Hold your own An' change your tone An' whistle, whistle, whistle!
A song is worth a world o' sighs. When red the lightnings play, Look for the rainbow in the skies An' whistle 'em away.
Don't mind how troubles bristle, The rose comes with the thistle. Hold your own An' change your tone An' whistle, whistle, whistle!
Each day comes with a life that's new, A strange, continued story But still beneath a bend o' blue The world rolls on to glory.
Don't mind how troubles bristle, Jest take a rose or thistle. Hold your own An' change your tone An' whistle, whistle, whistle!
_Frank L. Stanton._
"MIGHT HAVE BEEN"
"Yes, it's pretty hard," the optimistic old woman admitted. "I have to get along with only two teeth, one in the upper jaw and one in the lower--but thank God, they meet."
Here's to "The days that might have been"; Here's to "The life I might have led"; The fame I might have gathered in-- The glory ways I might have sped. Great "Might Have Been," I drink to you Upon a throne where thousands hail-- And then--there looms another view-- I also "might have been" in jail.
O "Land of Might Have Been," we turn With aching hearts to where you wait; Where crimson fires of glory burn, And laurel crowns the guarding gate; We may not see across your fields The sightless skulls that knew their woe-- The broken spears--the shattered shields-- That "might have been" as truly so.
"Of all sad words of tongue or pen"-- So wails the poet in his pain-- The saddest are, "It might have been," And world-wide runs the dull refrain. The saddest? Yes--but in the jar This thought brings to me with its curse, I sometimes think the gladdest are "It might have been a blamed sight worse."
_Grantland Rice._
From "The Sportlight."
THE ONE
In our youth we picture ourselves as we will be in the future--not mere types of this or that kind of success, but above all and in all, Ideal Men. Then come the years and the struggles, and we are buffeted and baffled, and our very ideal is eclipsed. But others have done better than we. Weary and harassed, they yet embody our visions. And we, if we are worth our salt, do not envy them when we see them. Nor should we grow dispirited. Rather should we rejoice in their triumph, rejoice that our dreams were not impossibilities, take courage to strive afresh for that which we know is best.