It Can Be Done - Joseph Morris
There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,
There are thousands to prophesy failure;
There are thousands to point out to you one by one,
The dangers that wait to assail you.
But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,
Just take off your coat and go to it;
Just start to sing as you tackle the thing
That "cannot be done," and you'll do it.
_Edgar A. Guest._
From "The Path to Home."
THE WELCOME MAN
There's a man in the world who is never turned down, wherever
he chances to stray; he gets the glad hand in the populous
town, or out where the farmers make hay; he's greeted with
pleasure on deserts of sand, and deep in the aisles of the
woods; wherever he goes there's the welcoming hand--he's The
Man Who Delivers the Goods. The failures of life sit around and
complain; the gods haven't treated them white; they've lost
their umbrellas whenever there's rain, and they haven't their
lanterns at night; men tire of the failures who fill with their
sighs the air of their own neighborhoods; there's one who is
greeted with love-lighted eyes--he's The Man Who Delivers the
Goods. One fellow is lazy, and watches the clock, and waits for
the whistle to blow; and one has a hammer, with which he will
knock, and one tells a story of woe; and one, if requested to
travel a mile, will measure the perches and roods; but one does
his stunt with a whistle or smile--he's The Man Who Delivers
the Goods. One man is afraid that he'll labor too hard--the
world isn't yearning for such; and one man is always alert, on
his guard, lest he put in a minute too much; and one has a
grouch or a temper that's bad, and one is a creature of moods;
so it's hey for the joyous and rollicking lad--for the One Who
Delivers the Goods!
_Walt Mason._
From "Walt Mason, His Book."
THE QUITTER
In the famous naval duel between the _Bonhomme Richard_ and the
_Serapis_, John Paul Jones was hailed by his adversary to know whether
he struck his colors. "I have not yet begun to fight," was his answer.
When the surrender took place, it was not Jones's ship that became the
prize of war. Everybody admires a hard fighter--the man who takes
buffets standing up, and in a spirit of "Never say die" is always ready
for more.
When you're lost in the wild and you're scared as a child,
And death looks you bang in the eye;
And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle
To cock your revolver and die.
But the code of a man says fight all you can,
And self-dissolution is barred;
In hunger and woe, oh it's easy to blow--
It's the hell served for breakfast that's hard.
You're sick of the game? Well now, that's a shame!
You're young and you're brave and you're bright.
You've had a raw deal, I know, but don't squeal.
Buck up, do your damnedest and fight!
It's the plugging away that will win you the day,
So don't be a piker, old pard;
Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit--
It's the keeping your chin up that's hard.
It's easy to cry that you're beaten and die,
It's easy to crawfish and crawl,
But to fight and to fight when hope's out of sight,
Why, that's the best game of them all.
And though you come out of each grueling bout,
All broken and beaten and scarred--
Just have one more try. It's dead easy to die,
It's the keeping on living that's hard.
_Robert W. Service._
From "Rhymes of a Rolling Stone."
[Illustration: ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE]
FRIENDS OF MINE
We like to be hospitable. To what should we be more hospitable than a
glad spirit or a kind impulse?
Good-morning, Brother Sunshine,
Good-morning, Sister Song,
I beg your humble pardon
If you've waited very long.
I thought I heard you rapping,
To shut you out were sin,
My heart is standing open,
Won't you
walk
right
in?
Good-morning, Brother Gladness,
Good-morning, Sister Smile,
They told me you were coming,
So I waited on a while.
I'm lonesome here without you,
A weary while it's been,
My heart is standing open,
Won't you
walk
right
in?
Good-morning, Brother Kindness,
Good-morning, Sister Cheer,
I heard you were out calling,
So I waited for you here.
Some way, I keep forgetting
I have to toil or spin
When you are my companions,
Won't you
walk
right
in?
_James W. Foley._
From "The Voices of Song."
THE WOMAN WHO UNDERSTANDS
"Is this the little woman that made this great war?" was Lincoln's
greeting to Harriet Beecher Stowe. Often a woman is responsible for
events by whose crash and splendor she herself is obscured. Often too
she shapes the career of husband or brother or son. A man succeeds and
reaps the honors of public applause, when in truth a quiet little woman
has made it all possible--has by her tact and encouragement held him to
his best, has had faith in him when his own faith has languished, has
cheered him with the unfailing assurance, "You can, you must, you will."
_Somewhere she waits to make you win, your soul in her firm, white hands--
Somewhere the gods have made for you, the Woman Who Understands!_
As the tide went out she found him
Lashed to a spar of Despair,
The wreck of his Ship around him--
The wreck of his Dreams in the air;
Found him and loved him and gathered
The soul of him close to her heart--
The soul that had sailed an uncharted sea,
The soul that had sought to win and be free--
The soul of which _she_ was part!
And there in the dusk she cried to the man,
"Win your battle--you can, you can!"
Broken by Fate, unrelenting,
Scarred by the lashings of Chance;
Bitter his heart--unrepenting--
Hardened by Circumstance;
Shadowed by Failure ever,
Cursing, he would have died,
But the touch of her hand, her strong warm hand,
And her love of his soul, took full command,
Just at the turn of the tide!
Standing beside him, filled with trust,
"Win!" she whispered, "you must, you must!"
Helping and loving and guiding,
Urging when that were best,
Holding her fears in hiding
Deep in her quiet breast;
This is the woman who kept him
True to his standards lost,
When, tossed in the storm and stress of strife,
He thought himself through with the game of life
And ready to pay the cost.
Watching and guarding, whispering still,
"Win you can--and you will, you will!"
This is the story of ages,
This is the Woman's way;
Wiser than seers or sages,
Lifting us day by day;
Facing all things with a courage
Nothing can daunt or dim,
Treading Life's path, wherever it leads--
Lined with flowers or choked with weeds,
But ever with him--with him!
Guidon--comrade--golden spur--
The men who win are helped by _her_!
_Somewhere she waits, strong in belief, your soul in her firm, white hands:
Thank well the gods, when she comes to you--the Woman Who Understands!_
_Everard Jack Appleton._
From "The Quiet Courage."
WANTED--A MAN
Business and the world are exacting in their demands upon us. They make
no concessions to half-heartedness, incompetence, or plodding mediocrity.
But for the man who has proved his worth and can do the exceptional
things with originality and sound judgment, they are eagerly watchful
and have rich rewards.
You say big corporations scheme
To keep a fellow down;
They drive him, shame him, starve him too
If he so much as frown.
God knows I hold no brief for them;
Still, come with me to-day
And watch those fat directors meet,
For this is what they say:
"In all our force not one to take
The new work that we plan!
In all the thousand men we've hired
Where shall we find a man?"
The world is shabby in the way
It treats a fellow too;
It just endures him while he works,
And kicks him when he's through.
It's ruthless, yes; let him make good,
Or else it grabs its broom
And grumbles: "What a clutter's here!
We can't have this. Make room!"
And out he goes. It says, "Can bread
Be made from mouldy bran?
The men come swarming here in droves,
But where'll I find a man?"
Yes, life is hard. But all the same
It seeks the man who's best.
Its grudging makes the prizes big;
The obstacle's a test.
Don't ask to find the pathway smooth,
To march to fife and drum;
The plum-tree will not come to you;
Jack Horner, hunt the plum.
The eyes of life are yearning, sad,
As humankind they scan.
She says, "Oh, there are men enough,
But where'll I find a man?"
_St. Clair Adams._
IF I SHOULD DIE
A man whose word is as good as his bond is a man the world admires. It
is related of Fox that a tradesman whom he long had owed money found him
one day counting gold and asked for payment. Fox replied: "No; I owe
this money to Sheridan. It is a debt of honor. If an accident should
happen to me, he has nothing to show." The tradesman tore his note to
pieces: "I change my debt into a debt of honor." Fox thanked him and
handed over the money, saying that Sheridan's debt was not of so long
standing and that Sheridan must wait. But most of us know men who are
less scrupulous than Fox.
If I should die to-night
And you should come to my cold corpse and say,
Weeping and heartsick o'er my lifeless clay--
If I should die to-night,
And you should come in deepest grief and woe--
And say: "Here's that ten dollars that I owe,"
I might arise in my large white cravat
And say, "What's that?"
If I should die to-night
And you should come to my cold corpse and kneel,
Clasping my bier to show the grief you feel,
I say, if I should die to-night
And you should come to me, and there and then
Just even hint 'bout payin' me that ten,
I might arise the while,
But I'd drop dead again.
_Ben King._
From "Ben King's Verse."
JUST BE GLAD
Misfortunes overtake us, difficulties confront us; but these things must
not induce us to give up. A Congressman who had promised Thomas B. Reed
to be present at a political meeting telegraphed at the last moment:
"Cannot come; washout on the line." "No need to stay away," said Reed's
answering telegram; "buy another shirt."
O heart of mine, we shouldn't
Worry so!
What we've missed of calm we couldn't
Have, you know!
What we've met of stormy pain,
And of sorrow's driving rain,
We can better meet again,
If it blow!
We have erred in that dark hour
We have known,
When our tears fell with the shower,
All alone!--
Were not shine and shower blent
As the gracious Master meant?--
Let us temper our content
With His own.
For, we know, not every morrow
Can be sad;
So, forgetting all the sorrow
We have had,
Let us fold away our fears,
And put by our foolish tears,
And through all the coming years
Just be glad.
_James Whitcomb Riley._
From the Biographical Edition Of the
Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley.
OPPORTUNITY
"I lack only one of having a hundred," said a student after an
examination; "I have the two naughts." And all he did lack was a one,
_rightly placed_. The world is full of opportunities. Discernment to
perceive, courage to undertake, patience to carry through, will change
the whole aspect of the universe for us and bring positive achievement
out of meaningless negation.
With doubt and dismay you are smitten
You think there's no chance for you, son?
Why, the best books haven't been written
The best race hasn't been run,
The best score hasn't been made yet,
The best song hasn't been sung,
The best tune hasn't been played yet,
Cheer up, for the world is young!
No chance? Why the world is just eager
For things that you ought to create
Its store of true wealth is still meagre
Its needs are incessant and great,
It yearns for more power and beauty
More laughter and love and romance,
More loyalty, labor and duty,
No chance--why there's nothing but chance!
For the best verse hasn't been rhymed yet,
The best house hasn't been planned,
The highest peak hasn't been climbed yet,
The mightiest rivers aren't spanned,
Don't worry and fret, faint hearted,
The chances have just begun,
For the Best jobs haven't been started,
The Best work hasn't been done.
_Berton Braley._
From "A Banjo at Armageddon."
SOLITUDE
Said an Irishman who had several times been kicked downstairs: "I begin
to think they don't want me around here." So it is with our sorrows, our
struggles. Life decrees that they belong to us individually. If we try
to make others share them, we are shunned. But struggling and weary
humanity is glad enough to share our joys.
Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth
Must borrow its mirth,
It has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound
To a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.
Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure
Of all your pleasure,
But they do not want your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all;
There are none to decline
Your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life's gall.
Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by;
Succeed and give,
And it helps you live,
But it cannot help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train;
But one by one
We must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.
_Ella Wheeler Wilcox._
From "How Salvator Won."
UNSUBDUED
"An artist's career," said Whistler, "always begins to-morrow." So does
the career of any man of courage and imagination. The Eden of such a man
does not lie in yesterday. If he has done well, he forgets his
achievements and dreams of the big deeds ahead. If he has been thwarted,
he forgets his failures and looks forward to vast, sure successes. If
fate itself opposes him, he defies it. Farragut's fleet was forcing an
entrance into Mobile Bay. One of the vessels struck something, a
terrific explosion followed, the vessel went down. "Torpedoes, sir."
They scanned the face of the commander-in-chief. But Farragut did not
hesitate. "Damn the torpedoes," said he. "Go ahead."
I have hoped, I have planned, I have striven,
To the will I have added the deed;
The best that was in me I've given,
I have prayed, but the gods would not heed.
I have dared and reached only disaster,
I have battled and broken my lance;
I am bruised by a pitiless master
That the weak and the timid call Chance.
I am old, I am bent, I am cheated
Of all that Youth urged me to win;
But name me not with the defeated,
To-morrow again, I begin.
_S.E. Kiser._
From "Poems That Have Helped Me."
WORK
"A SONG OF TRIUMPH"
When Captain John Smith was made the leader of the colonists at
Jamestown, Va., he discouraged the get-rich-quick seekers of gold by
announcing flatly, "He who will not work shall not eat." This rule made
of Jamestown the first permanent English settlement in the New World.
But work does more than lead to material success. It gives an outlet
from sorrow, restrains wild desires, ripens and refines character,
enables human beings to cooperate with God, and when well done, brings
to life its consummate satisfaction. Every man is a Prince of
Possibilities, but by work alone can he come into his Kingship.
Work!
Thank God for the might of it,
The ardor, the urge, the delight of it--
Work that springs from the heart's desire,
Setting the brain and the soul on fire--
Oh, what is so good as the heat of it,
And what is so glad as the beat of it,
And what is so kind as the stern command,
Challenging brain and heart and hand?
Work!
Thank God for the pride of it,
For the beautiful, conquering tide of it.
Sweeping the life in its furious flood,
Thrilling the arteries, cleansing the blood,
Mastering stupor and dull despair,
Moving the dreamer to do and dare.
Oh, what is so good as the urge of it,
And what is so glad as the surge of it,
And what is so strong as the summons deep,
Rousing the torpid soul from sleep?
Work!
Thank God for the pace of it,
For the terrible, keen, swift race of it;
Fiery steeds in full control,
Nostrils a-quiver to greet the goal.
Work, the Power that drives behind,
Guiding the purposes, taming the mind,
Holding the runaway wishes back,
Reining the will to one steady track,
Speeding the energies faster, faster,
Triumphing over disaster.
Oh, what is so good as the pain of it,
And what is so great as the gain of it?
And what is so kind as the cruel goad,
Forcing us on through the rugged road?
Work!
Thank God for the swing of it,
For the clamoring, hammering ring of it,
Passion and labor daily hurled
On the mighty anvils of the world.
Oh, what is so fierce as the flame of it?
And what is so huge as the aim of it?
Thundering on through dearth and doubt,
Calling the plan of the Maker out.
Work, the Titan; Work, the friend,
Shaping the earth to a glorious end,
Draining the swamps and blasting the hills,
Doing whatever the Spirit wills--
Rending a continent apart,
To answer the dream of the Master heart.
Thank God for a world where none may shirk--
Thank God for the splendor of work!
_Angela Morgan._
From "The Hour Has Struck."
HOW DID YOU DIE?
Grant at Ft. Donelson demanded unconditional and immediate surrender. At
Appomattox he offered as lenient terms as victor ever extended to
vanquished. Why the difference? The one event was at the beginning of
the war, when the enemy's morale must be shaken. The other was at the
end of the conflict, when a brave and noble adversary had been rendered
helpless. In his quiet way Grant showed himself one of nature's
gentlemen. He also taught a great lesson. No honor can be too great for
the man, be he even our foe, who has steadily and uncomplainingly done
his very best--and has failed.
Did you tackle that trouble that came your way
With a resolute heart and cheerful?
Or hide your face from the light of day
With a craven soul and fearful?
Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,
Or a trouble is what you make it,
And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,
But only how did you take it?
You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that!
Come up with a smiling face.
It's nothing against you to fall down flat,
But to lie there--that's disgrace.
The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce
Be proud of your blackened eye!
It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts;
It's how did you fight--and why?
And though you be done to the death, what then?
If you battled the best you could,
If you played your part in the world of men,
Why, the Critic will call it good.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
And whether he's slow or spry,
It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,
But only how did you die?
_Edmund Vance Cooke._
From "Impertinent Poems."
A LESSON FROM HISTORY
To break the ice of an undertaking is difficult. To cross on broken ice,
as Eliza did to freedom, or to row amid floating ice, as Washington did
to victory, is harder still. This poem applies especially to those who
are discouraged in a struggle to which they are already committed.
Everything's easy after it's done;
Every battle's a "cinch" that's won;
Every problem is clear that's solved--
The earth was round when it _revolved!_
But Washington stood amid grave doubt
With enemy forces camped about;
He could not know how he would fare
Till _after_ he'd crossed the Delaware.
Though the river was full of ice
He did not think about it twice,
But started across in the dead of night,
The enemy waiting to open the fight.
Likely feeling pretty blue,
Being human, same as you,
But he was brave amid despair,
And Washington crossed the Delaware!
So when you're with trouble beset,
And your spirits are soaking wet,
When all the sky with clouds is black,
Don't lie down upon your back
And look at _them_. Just do the thing;
Though you are choked, still try to sing.
If times are dark, believe them fair,
And you will cross the Delaware!
_Joseph Morris._
RABBI BEN EZRA
(SELECTED VERSES)
To some people success is everything, and the easier it is gained the
better. To Browning success is nothing unless it is won by painful
effort. What Browning values is struggle. Throes, rebuffs, even failure
to achieve what we wish, are to be welcomed, for the effects of vigorous
endeavor inweave themselves into our characters; moreover through
struggle we lift ourselves from the degradation into which the indolent
fall. In the intervals of strife we may look back dispassionately upon
what we have gone through, see where we erred and where we did wisely,
watch the workings of universal laws, and resolve to apply hereafter
what we have hitherto learned.
Then, welcome each rebuff
That turns earth's smoothness rough,
Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go!
Be our joys three-parts pain!
Strive, and hold cheap the strain;
Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!
For thence,--a paradox
Which comforts while it mocks,--
Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail:
What I aspired to be,
And was not, comforts me:
A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale.
So, still within this life,
Though lifted o'er its strife,
Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last,
"This rage was right i' the main,
That acquiescence vain:
The Future I may face now I have proved the Past."
For more is not reserved
To man, with soul just nerved
To act to-morrow what he learns to-day:
Here, work enough to watch
The Master work, and catch
Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play.
_Robert Browning._
TO MELANCHOLY
The last invitation anybody would accept is "Come, let us weep
together." If we keep melancholy at our house, we should be careful to
have it under lock and key, so that no one will observe it.
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.