It Can Be Done - Joseph Morris
_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._
[Illustration: HENRY VAN DYKE]
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."
[Illustration: CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN]
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.")
We often wish that we might do some other man's work, occupy his social
or political station. But such an interchange is not easy. The world is
complex, and its adjustments have come from long years of experience.
Each man does well to perform the tasks for which nature and training
have fitted him. And instead of feeling envy toward other people, we
should rejoice that all labor, however diverse, is to one great end--it
makes life richer and fuller.
Therefore doth heaven divide
The state of man in divers functions,
Setting endeavor in continual motion;
To which is fixed, as an aim or butt,
Obedience: for so work the honey-bees,
Creatures that by a rule in nature teach
The act of order to a peopled kingdom.
They have a king and officers of sorts;
Where some, like magistrates, correct at home,
Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad,
Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings,
Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds;
Which pillage they with merry march bring home
To the tent-royal of their emperor:
Who, busied in his majesty, surveys
The singing masons building roofs of gold,
The civil citizens kneading up the honey,
The poor mechanic porters crowding in
Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate,
The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum,
Delivering o'er to executors pale
The lazy yawning drone. I this infer,
That many things, having full reference
To one consent, may work contrariously.
_William Shakespeare._
SELF-DEPENDENCE
One star does not ask another to adore it or amuse it; Mt. Shasta,
though it towers for thousands of feet above its neighbors, does not
repine that it is alone or that the adjacent peaks see much that it
misses under the clouds. Nature does not trouble itself about what the
rest of nature is doing. But man constantly worries about other
men--what they think of him, do to him, fail to emulate in him, have or
secure in comparison with him. He lacks nature's inward quietude.
Calmness and peace come by being self-contained.
Weary of myself, and sick of asking
What I am, and what I ought to be,
At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me
Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea.
And a look of passionate desire
O'er the sea and to the stars I send:
"Ye who from my childhood up have calmed me,
Calm me, ah, compose me to the end!
"Ah, once more," I cried, "ye stars, ye waters,
On my heart your mighty charm renew;
Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you,
Feel my soul becoming vast like you!"
From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven,
Over the lit sea's unquiet way,
In the rustling night-air came the answer:
"Wouldst thou BE as these are? LIVE as they.
"Unaffrighted by the silence round them,
Undistracted by the sights they see,
These demand not that the things without them
Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.
"And with joy the stars perform their shining,
And the sea its long, moon-silver'd roll;
For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting
All the fever of some differing soul.
"Bounded by themselves, and unregardful
In what state God's other works may be,
In their own tasks all their powers pouring,
These attain the mighty life you see."
O air-born voice! long since, severely clear,
A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear:
"Resolve to be thyself; and know that he
Who finds himself, loses his misery!"
_Matthew Arnold._
A LITTLE PRAYER
We should strive to bring what happiness we can to others. More still,
we should strive to bring them no unhappiness. When we come to die, it
is, as George Eliot once said, not our kindness or our patience or our
generosity that we shall regret, but our intolerance and our harshness.
That I may not in blindness grope,
But that I may with vision clear
Know when to speak a word of hope
Or add a little wholesome cheer.
That tempered winds may softly blow
Where little children, thinly clad,
Sit dreaming, when the flame is low,
Of comforts they have never had.
That through the year which lies ahead
No heart shall ache, no cheek be wet,
For any word that I have said
Or profit I have tried to get.
_S.E. Kiser._
A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT
It is said that once at a laird's house Burns was placed at a second
table, and that this rankled in his breast and caused him to write his
poem on equality. He insists that rank, wealth, and external
distinctions are merely the stamp on the guinea; the man is the gold
itself. Snobbishness he abhors; poverty he confesses to without hanging
his head in the least; the pith of sense and the pride of worth he
declares superior to any dignity thrust upon a person from the outside.
In a final, prophetic mood he looks forward to the time when a democracy
of square dealing shall prevail, praise shall be reserved for merit, and
men the world over shall be to each other as brothers. In line 8
gowd=gold; 9, hamely=homely, commonplace; 11, gie=give; 15, sae=so; 17,
birkie=fellow; 20, cuif=simpleton; 25, mak=make; 27, aboon=above; 28,
mauna=must not; fa'=acclaim; 36, gree=prize.
Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Our toils obscure, and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea stamp;
The man's the gowd for a' that.
What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden-gray, and a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, and a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is King o' men for a' that.
Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, and stares, and a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a cuif for a' that:
For a' that, and a' that.
His riband, star, and a' that,
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith he mauna fa' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Their dignities, and a' that,
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a' that;
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, and a' that.
For a' that and a' that,
It's coming yet, for a' that,
That man to man the warld o'er
Shall brothers be for a' that.
_Robert Burns._
LIFE AND DEATH
Life! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met
I own to me a secret yet.
Life! We've been long together,
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;
'Tis hard to part when friends are dear;
Perhaps will cost a sigh, a tear;
Then steal away, give little warning,
Choose thine own time;
Say not "Good Night"--but in some brighter clime,
Bid me "Good Morning!"