Chapter 5
It's natchurl enugh, I guess, When some gits more and some gits less, Fer them-uns on the slimmest side To claim it ain't a fare divide; And I've knowed some to lay and wait, And git up soon, and set up late, To ketch some feller they could hate For goin' at a faster gait.
* * * * *
My doctern is to lay aside Contensions, and be satisfied: Jest do your best, and praise er blame That follers that, counts jest the same. I've allus noticed grate success Is mixed with troubles, more er less, And it's the man who does the best That gits more kicks than all the rest.
_James Whitcomb Riley._
From the Biographical Edition Of the Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley.
ULYSSES
This volume consists chiefly of contemporary or very recent verse. But it could not serve its full purpose without the presence, here and there, of older poems--of "classics." These express a truth, a mood, or a spirit that is universal, and they express it in words of noble dignity and beauty. They are not always easy to understand; they are crops we must patiently cultivate, not crops that volunteer. But they wear well; they grow upon us; we come back to them again and again, and still they are fresh, living, significant--not empty, meaningless, and weather-worn, like a last year's crow's nest.
Such a poem is _Ulysses_. It is shot through and through with the spirit of strenuous and never-ceasing endeavor--a spirit manifest in a hero who has every temptation to rest and enjoy. Ulysses is old. After ten long years of warfare before Troy, after endless misfortunes on his homeward voyage, after travels and experiences that have taken him everywhere and shown him everything that men know and do, he has returned to his rude native kingdom. He is reunited with his wife Penelope and his son Telemachus. He is rich and famous. Yet he is unsatisfied. The task and routine of governing a slow, materially minded people, though suited to his son's temperament, are unsuited to his. He wants to wear out rather than to rust out. He wants to discover what the world still holds. He wants to drink life to the lees. The morning has passed, the long day has waned, twilight and the darkness are at hand. But scant as are the years left to him, he will use them in a last, incomparable quest. He rallies his old comrades--tried men who always
"With a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine"--
and asks them to brave with him once more the hazards and the hardships of the life of vast; unsubdued enterprise.
It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel; I will drink Life to the lees. All times I have enjoy'd Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea. I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known,--cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honor'd of them all,-- And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades For ever and for ever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains; but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,-- Well-beloved of me, discerning to fulfil This labor, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail; There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me,-- That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads,--you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honor and his toil. Death closes all; but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks; The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends. 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down; It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,-- One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
_Alfred Tennyson._
PREPAREDNESS
For all your days prepare, And meet them ever alike: When you are the anvil, bear-- When you are the hammer, strike.
_Edwin Markham._
From "The Gates of Paradise, and Other Poems."
THE WISDOM OF FOLLY
"Jog on, jog on, the footpath way, And merrily hent the stile-a: A merry heart goes all the day, Your sad tires in a mile-a."
Shakespeare's lilting stanza conveys a great truth--the power of cheerfulness to give impetus and endurance. The _a_ at the end of lines is merely an addition in singing; the word _hent_ means take.
The cynics say that every rose Is guarded by a thorn which grows To spoil our posies; But I no pleasure therefore lack; I keep my hands behind my back When smelling roses.
Though outwardly a gloomy shroud The inner half of every cloud Is bright and shining: I therefore turn my clouds about, And always wear them inside out To show the lining.
My modus operandi this-- To take no heed of what's amiss; And not a bad one; Because, as Shakespeare used to say, A merry heart goes twice the way That tires a sad one.
_Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler. (The Honorable Mrs. Alfred Felkin.)_
From "Verses Wise and Otherwise."
SEE IT THROUGH
An American traveler in Italy stood watching a lumberman who, as the logs floated down a swift mountain stream, jabbed his hook in an occasional one and drew it carefully aside. "Why do you pick out those few?" the traveler asked. "They all look alike." "But they are not alike, seignior. The logs I let pass have grown on the side of a mountain, where they have been protected all their lives. Their grain is coarse; they are good only for lumber. But these logs, seignior, grew on the top of the mountain. From the time they were sprouts and saplings they were lashed and buffeted by the winds, and so they grew strong with fine grain. We save them for choice work; they are not 'lumber,' seignior."
When you're up against a trouble, Meet it squarely, face to face; Lift your chin and set your shoulders, Plant your feet and take a brace. When it's vain to try to dodge it, Do the best that you can do; You may fail, but you may conquer, See it through!
Black may be the clouds about you And your future may seem grim, But don't let your nerve desert you; Keep yourself in fighting trim. If the worse is bound to happen, Spite of all that you can do, Running from it will not save you, See it through!
Even hope may seem but futile, When with troubles you're beset, But remember you are facing Just what other men have met. You may fail, but fall still fighting; Don't give up, whate'er you do; Eyes front, head high to the finish. See it through!
_Edgar A. Guest._
From "Just Folks."
DECEMBER 31
If January 1 is an ideal time for renewed consecration, December 31 is an ideal time for thankful reminiscence. The year has not brought us everything we might have hoped, but neither has it involved us in everything we might have feared. Many are the perils, the failures, the miseries we have escaped, and life to us is still gracious and wholesome and filled to the brim with satisfaction.
Best day of all the year, since I May see thee pass and know That if thou dost not leave me high Thou hast not found me low, And since, as I behold thee die, Thou leavest me the right to say That I to-morrow still may vie With them that keep the upward way.
Best day of all the year to me, Since I may stand and gaze Across the grayish past and see So many crooked ways That might have led to misery, Or might have ended at Disgrace-- Best day since thou dost leave me free To look the future in the face.
Best day of all days of the year, That was so kind, so good, Since thou dost leave me still the dear Old faith in brotherhood-- Best day since I, still striving here, May view the past with small regret, And, undisturbed by doubts or fear, Seeks paths that are untrod as yet.
_S.E. Kiser._
RING OUT, WILD BELLS
This great New Year's piece belongs almost as well to every day in the year, since it expresses a social ideal of justice and happiness.
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be.
_Alfred Tennyson._
WORK
The dog that dropped his bone to snap at its reflection in the water went dinnerless. So do we often lose the substance--the joy--of our work by longing for tasks we think better fitted to our capabilities.
Let me but do my work from day to day, In field or forest, at the desk or loom, In roaring market-place or tranquil room; Let me but find it in my heart to say, When vagrant wishes beckon me astray, "This is my work; my blessing, not my doom; Of all who live, I am the one by whom This work can best be done in the right way."
Then shall I see it not too great, nor small To suit my spirit and to prove my powers; Then shall I cheerful greet the laboring hours, And cheerful turn, when the long shadows fall At eventide, to play and love and rest, Because I know for me my work is best.
_Henry Van Dyke._
From "Collected Poems."
START WHERE YOU STAND
When a man who had been in the penitentiary applied to Henry Ford for employment, he started to tell Mr. Ford his story. "Never mind," said Mr. Ford, "I don't care about the past. Start where you stand!"--Author's note.
Start where you stand and never mind the past, The past won't help you in beginning new, If you have left it all behind at last Why, that's enough, you're done with it, you're through; This is another chapter in the book, This is another race that you have planned, Don't give the vanished days a backward look, Start where you stand.
The world won't care about your old defeats If you can start anew and win success, The future is your time, and time is fleet And there is much of work and strain and stress; Forget the buried woes and dead despairs, Here is a brand new trial right at hand, The future is for him who does and dares, Start where you stand.
Old failures will not halt, old triumphs aid, To-day's the thing, to-morrow soon will be; Get in the fight and face it unafraid, And leave the past to ancient history; What has been, has been; yesterday is dead And by it you are neither blessed nor banned, Take courage, man, be brave and drive ahead, Start where you stand.
_Berton Braley._
From "A Banjo at Armageddon."
A HOPEFUL BROTHER
A Cripple Creek miner remarked that he had hunted for gold for twenty-five years. He was asked how much he had found. "None," he replied, "but the prospects are good."
Ef you ask him, day or night, When the worl' warn't runnin' right, "Anything that's good in sight?" This is allus what he'd say, In his uncomplainin' way-- "Well, I'm hopin'."
When the winter days waz nigh, An' the clouds froze in the sky, Never sot him down to sigh, But, still singin' on his way, He'd stop long enough to say-- "Well, I'm hopin'."
Dyin', asked of him that night (Sperrit waitin' fer its flight), "Brother, air yer prospec's bright?" An'--last words they heard him say, In the ol', sweet, cheerful way-- "Well, I'm hopin'."
_Frank L. Stanton._
"The Atlanta Constitution."
A SONG OF THANKSGIVING
We should have grateful spirits, not merely for personal benefits, but also for the right to sympathize, to understand, to help, to trust, to struggle, to aspire.
Thank God I can rejoice In human things--the multitude's glad voice, The street's warm surge beneath the city light, The rush of hurrying faces on my sight, The million-celled emotion in the press That would their human fellowship confess. Thank Thee because I may my brother feed, That Thou hast opened me unto his need, Kept me from being callous, cold and blind, Taught me the melody of being kind. Thus, for my own and for my brother's sake-- Thank Thee I am awake!
Thank Thee that I can trust! That though a thousand times I feel the thrust Of faith betrayed, I still have faith in man, Believe him pure and good since time began-- Thy child forever, though he may forget The perfect mould in which his soul was set. Thank Thee that when love dies, fresh love springs up. New wonders pour from Heaven's cup. Young to my soul the ancient need returns, Immortal in my heart the ardor burns; My altar fires replenished from above-- Thank Thee that I can love!
Thank Thee that I can hear, Finely and keenly with the inner ear, Below the rush and clamor of a throng The mighty music of the under-song. And when the day has journeyed to its rest, Lo, as I listen, from the amber west, Where the great organ lifts its glowing spires, There sounds the chanting of the unseen choirs. Thank Thee for sight that shows the hidden flame Beneath all breathing, throbbing things the same, Thy Pulse the pattern of the thing to be.... Thank Thee that I can see!
Thank Thee that I can feel! That though life's blade be terrible as steel, My soul is stript and naked to the fang, I crave the stab of beauty and the pang. _To be alive, To think, to yearn, to strive,_ To suffer torture when the goal is wrong, To be sent back and fashioned strong Rejoicing in the lesson that was taught By all the good the grim experience wrought; At last, exulting, to _arrive_.... Thank God I am alive!
_Angela Morgan._
From "The Hour Has Struck."
LOSE THE DAY LOITERING
Anything is hard to begin, whether it be taking a cold bath, writing a letter, clearing up a misunderstanding, or falling to on the day's work. Yet "a thing begun is half done." No matter how unpleasant a thing is to do, begin it and immediately it becomes less unpleasant. Form the excellent habit of making a start.
Lose the day loitering, 'twill be the same story To-morrow, and the next more dilatory, For indecision brings its own delays, And days are lost lamenting o'er lost days. Are you in earnest? Seize this very minute! What you can do, or think you can, begin it! Only engage, and then the mind grows heated; Begin it, and the work will be completed.
_Johann Wolfgang von Goethe._
PLAYING THE GAME
We don't like the man who whines that the cards were stacked against him or that the umpire cheated. We admire the chap who, when he must take his medicine, takes it cheerfully, bravely. To play the game steadily is a merit, whether the game be a straight one or crooked. A thoroughbred, even though bad, has more of our respect than the craven who cleaves to the proprieties solely from fear to violate them. It has well been said: "The mistakes which make us men are better than the accuracies that keep us children."
Yes, he went an' stole our steers, So, of course, he had to die; I ain't sheddin' any tears, But, when I cash in--say, I Want to take it like that guy-- Laughin', jokin', with the rest, Not a whimper, not a cry, Standin' up to meet the test Till we swung him clear an' high, With his face turned toward the west!
Here's the way it looks to me; Cattle thief's no thing to be, But if you take up that trade, Be the best one ever made; If you've got a thing to do Do it strong an' SEE IT THROUGH!
That was him! He played the game, Took his chances, bet his hand, When at last the showdown came An' he lost, he kept his sand; Didn't weep an' didn't pray, Didn't waver er repent, Simply tossed his cards away, Knowin' well just what it meant. Never claimed the deck was stacked, Never called the game a snide, Acted like a man should act, Took his medicine--an' died!
So I say it here again, What I think is true of men; They should try to do what's right, Fair an' square an' clean an' white, But, whatever is their line, Bad er good er foul er fine, Let 'em go the Limit, play Like a plunger, that's the way!
_Berton Braley._
From "Songs of the Workaday World."
RESOLVE
There are some things we should all resolve to do. What are they? Any one may make a list for himself. It would be interesting to compare it with the one here given by the poet.
To keep my health! To do my work! To live! To see to it I grow and gain and give! Never to look behind me for an hour! To wait in weakness, and to walk in power; But always fronting onward to the light, Always and always facing towards the right. Robbed, starved, defeated, fallen, wide astray-- On, with what strength I have! Back to the way!
_Charlotte Perkins Gilman._
From "In This Our World."
WHEN NATURE WANTS A MAN
Only melting and hammering can shape and temper steel for fine use. Only struggle and suffering can give a man the qualities that enable him to render large service to humanity. Lincoln was born in a log cabin. He split rails, and conned a few books by the firelight in the evening. He became a backwoods lawyer with apparently no advantages or encouraging prospects. But all the while he had his visions, which ever became nobler; and the adversities he knew but gave him the deeper sympathy for others and the wider and steadier outlook on human problems. Thus when the supreme need arose, Lincoln was ready--harsh-visaged nature had done its work of moulding and preparing a man.
When Nature wants to drill a man And thrill a man, And skill a man, When Nature wants to mould a man To play the noblest part; When she yearns with all her heart To create so great and bold a man That all the world shall praise-- Watch her method, watch her ways! How she ruthlessly perfects Whom she royally elects; How she hammers him and hurts him And with mighty blows converts him Into trial shapes of clay which only Nature understands-- While his tortured heart is crying and he lifts beseeching hands!-- How she bends, but never breaks, When his good she undertakes.... How she uses whom she chooses And with every purpose fuses him, By every art induces him To try his splendor out-- Nature knows what she's about.
When Nature wants to take a man And shake a man And wake a man; When Nature wants to make a man To do the Future's will; When she tries with all her skill And she yearns with all her soul To create him large and whole.... With what cunning she prepares him! How she goads and never spares him, How she whets him and she frets him And in poverty begets him.... How she often disappoints Whom she sacredly anoints, With what wisdom she will hide him, Never minding what betide him Though his genius sob with slighting and his pride may not forget! Bids him struggle harder yet. Makes him lonely So that only God's high messages shall reach him So that she may surely teach him What the Hierarchy planned. Though he may not understand Gives him passions to command-- How remorselessly she spurs him, With terrific ardor stirs him When she poignantly prefers him!
When Nature wants to name a man And fame a man And tame a man; When Nature wants to shame a man To do his heavenly best.... When she tries the highest test That her reckoning may bring-- When she wants a god or king!-- How she reins him and restrains him So his body scarce contains him While she fires him And inspires him! Keeps him yearning, ever burning for a tantalising goal-- Lures and lacerates his soul. Sets a challenge for his spirit, Draws it higher when he's near it-- Makes a jungle, that he clear it; Makes a desert, that he fear it And subdue it if he can-- So doth Nature make a man. Then, to test his spirit's wrath Hurls a mountain in his path-- Puts a bitter choice before him And relentless stands o'er him. "Climb, or perish!" so she says.... Watch her purpose, watch her ways!
Nature's plan is wondrous kind Could we understand her mind ... Fools are they who call her blind. When his feet are torn and bleeding Yet his spirit mounts unheeding, All his higher powers speeding Blazing newer paths and fine; When the force that is divine Leaps to challenge every failure and his ardor still is sweet And love and hope are burning in the presence of defeat.... Lo, the crisis! Lo, the shout That must call the leader out. When the people need salvation Doth he come to lead the nation.... Then doth Nature show her plan When the world has found--a man!
_Angela Morgan._
From "Forward, March!"
ORDER AND THE BEES
(FROM "HENRY V.")