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I like the man who faces what he must
With step triumphant and a heart of cheer;
Who fights the daily battle without fear;
Sees his hopes fail, yet keeps unfaltering trust
That God is God—that somehow, true and just
His plans work out for mortals; not a tear
Is shed when fortune, which the world holds dear,
Falls from his grasp—better, with love, a crust
Than living in dishonor; envies not,
Nor loses faith in man; but does his best,
Nor ever murmurs at his humbler lot;
But, with a smile and words of hope, gives zest
To every toiler. He alone is great
Who by a life heroic conquers fate.
—Sarah Knowles Bolton.
SYMPATHY
RESOLVE
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 toward 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 Stetson.
THE SLUGGARD
MIZPAH
"The Lord watch between me and thee, when we are absent
one from the other."
I've wandered to the village, Tom, I've sat beneath the tree,
Upon the schoolhouse playground, which sheltered you and me,
But none were there to greet me, Tom, and few were left to know,
That played with us upon the grass some twenty years ago.
The boys were playing the same old game, beneath the same old
tree—
I do forget the name just now; you've played the same with me
On that same spot; 'twas play'd with knives, by throwing so and so,
The loser had a task to do, just twenty years ago.
The river's running just as still, the willows on its side
Are larger than they were, Tom, the stream appears less wide.
But the grape-vine swing is ruin'd now where once we play'd the
beau,
And swung our sweethearts—"pretty girls"—just twenty years ago.
The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close by the spreading beech,
Is very low—'twas once so high that we could almost reach;
And kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, I even started so!
To see how much that I am changed since twenty years ago.
Nearby the spring, upon an elm, you know I cut your name,
Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same—
Some heartless wretch had peel'd the bark, 'twas dying sure but
slow,
Just as the one whose name was cut, died twenty years ago.
My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears came in my eyes,
I thought of her I loved so well—those early broken ties—
I visited the old churchyard, and took some flowers to strew
Upon the graves of those we loved, some twenty years ago.
Some are in the churchyard laid, some sleep beneath the sea,
But few are left of our old class, excepting you and me,
And when our time is come, Tom, and we are call'd to go,
I hope they'll lay us where we played just twenty years ago.
—A. J.
Gault.
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