Chapter II: Part 2

"Doan't yuh talk ter me erbout yoh tahrpin en clam-bakes en yoistah fries!" exclaimed a recently arrived Guthrie coon. "Des' gib me sweet-'taters smotahed in 'possum gravy en all baked brown like we uster hab 'em down in ole Mississip! Go' way, niggah! Dat wuz high-libben like de real ahticle, I done tole ye!"

The Bright Side.

I.

The bright side! The bright side! In spite of wind and snow,
The summer comes in beauty and buds and blossoms grow,
And whatsoe'er the fortune that brings the rose or rue,
A kindly Heart in heaven is taking care of you!

II.

The bright side! The bright side!
Through all the hours of night,
The holy stars are watching you with sentinels of light,
And no matter how the sorrows may darken all the day,
The pleasures come in legions and drive their ghosts away.

III.

The bright side! The bright side!
Though disappointments throng,
Sweet labor lifts the burden and satisfies with song,
And after all the sadness that shades the rugged life,
There's glory for the struggle and slumber for the strife.

IV.

The bright side! The bright side!
The side that's always there
Across the ways I wander and all the paths of care;
No matter what the darkness, the storm of land or sea,
The bright side still is shining, and that's the side for me!

Caught on the Fly.

Don't cry over spilled milk. Tie up another cow, and try it again.

Don't trail over the world hunting for happiness with a candle, when the sunshine Of God's mercy is over every thing.

Who can understand the deeps and heights of another's nature? Nay, who can measure and comprehend even his own?

Four-tined forks are splendid implements in the hay-field, but any fork is a mighty poor thing to impale the gorgeous bliss reposing in a ripe water-melon's ruddy heart.

The Weather Man's Mistakes.

No doubt, we all have troubles
That arise from this and that,
And we seldom make a home-run
Though we're often at the bat;
But the prince of all the fellows
That performs the wildest breaks,
Is the chap that brings the burdens
Of the weather man's mistakes.

"Sunday, fair and cool and pleasant"
So you hie yourself away
To the wild-wood sweet and shady
For a joyous, happy day;
Then the rain comes down in torrents
Till it drowns the very snakes,
And you have a high example
Of the weather man's mistakes.

"Wednesday, storm, perhaps a cyclone!"
So you stay at home and wait,
With your windows tightly shuttered
For a hurricano great;
But it's all as mild as morning,
And you shout, "Of all the fakes!"
While you grumble, wildly helpless,
At the weather man's mistakes.

And some day a patient people
Turned to furies by their wrongs,
Will arise and smite the building
Where the weather man belongs;
And whatever then shall happen,
They will know the joy that wakes,
When no longer made to suffer
From the weatherman's mistakes!

In Supplication.

Dear Lord, I ask not that I live so long
That all the joy is gathered, all the rose;
But rather let me perish, ere the Song,
The highest Hope and perfect Vision close!

"When the Roas'in'-Ears Air Plenty."

I.

Talk about the joys of winter! Whut's the fun of foolin' round
With the posies dead en buried, en the snows upon the ground?
When the wind's a-tossin' blizzards in a most distressin' way
Tell you have to set a-straddle of the fire-place all the day!
But I tell ye life's a-livin' when the summer grows the grass
Over all the nooks en crannies whayre a feller's feet kin pass,
En the whole world seems of heaven but a half-forgotten type,
When the roas'in'-ears air plenty en the worter-millons ripe!

II.

Roas'in'-ears is best of eatin', though not very much fer style!
Shuck an arm-full fer yer dinner, sot 'em on en let 'em bile;
Salt 'em well, en smear some butter on the juicy cobs ez sweet
Ez the lips of maple-suger thet yer sweet-heart has to eat!
Talk about ole Mount Olympus en the stuff them roosters spread
On theyr tables when they feasted,--nectar drink, ambrosia bread,--
Why, I tell ye, fellers, never would I swop the grub I swipe
When the roas'in'-ears air plenty en the worter millons ripe!

III.

Near the sugar camps of glory is the worter millon patch
Like a great big nest of goodies thet is jest a-gone to hatch;
En ye take yer thumb en finger in an ecstasy so drunk
Thet ye hardly hear the music of theyr dreamy plunky-plunk!
En the griefs air gone ferever, en the sorrers lose control
Ez ye feed the angel in ye on the honeys of a soul,
En ye smack yer lips with laughter while the birds of heaven pipe,
When the roas'in'-ears air plenty en the worter-millons ripe!

IV.

O, the darlin' days of summer when the stars of plenty shine
With the apples in the orchard en the graps upon the vine!
When the hedges bud en blossom, en the medders rich en rare
Breathe the perfumes of the clovers like an incense everywhayre!
En the world seems like yer mother, with the tender hands thet bless
All the restless race of struggle with a heaped-up happiness,
En her han'kerchiefs of glory from yer eyes the weepin's wipe,
When the roas'in'-ears is plenty en the worter-millons ripe!

Don't You Fret.

Don't you fret about the weather
'Cause it seems a little hot;
You will find it rather sultry
Over yonder, like as not!
And unless you mend your manners
You will land without a doubt,
Where the brim-stone keeps a blazin'
And the fire is never out!

The Kingbolt Philosopher.

"In spite of whut some fellers say, this world never owed anybody a livin' yit!" said Uncle Ezra Mudge, as he whetted his scythe and tried the edge on the broad part of his thumb. "Thet heresy wuz invented fer the lazy cuss thet wuz too ornery to git up in the mornin' and hustle fer grub while the grass wuz wet.

"Some fellers seem ter act on the habit thet the world not only owes 'em a livin' but air willin' fer some body else to do the collectin' fer 'em. Leastways, they never do much hustlin' in thet direction theirselves. En I hev noticed thet when other fellers collect the livin' fer a feller, they giner'ly confisticate the most ov it in commissions!"

"Doing Pretty Well."

There are many that you meet with
Who are always full of gloom,
And they chew the rag forever
'Bout the darkness of their doom;
But as through the world we journey,
There's a joy that none may tell
When we meet the pleasant people
Who are "doing pretty well."

There are fellows by the dozens
Who are always in the skies,
And forever capture fortunes
Of the most gigantic size;
But we stagger from their presence
And their glories that repel,
For the quiet-spoken persons
Who are "doing pretty well."

O, it's neither sun nor shadow
All the time from year to year,--
And it's neither all of pleasure
Or of pain,--the journey here!
But whatever clouds may gather
Or what sunshine, for a spell
Let us keep a steady temper
And keep "doing pretty well!"

Caught on the Fly.

Hitch your wagon to a star, if you will, but always stand ready to throw the harness on the mules, also.

The man who masters the world may trust in Providence, but he climbs to greatness on the stepping stones of hard work.

In the economy of farmers entirely up against the crab-grass in the cotton-patch, the mule is mightier than the sword.

What shall it matter though sorrows distress us?
God sends the sun and the shadows to bless us!
And through all the years
Joy ever appears,
With a little of love and a little of laughter
To fashion this life for a jolly hereafter!

The Kingbolt Philosopher.

"I want ter say," remarked Uncle Ezra Mudge as he began his Sunday shaving and stropped his razor on his thumb-nail, "I want ter say thet eddication is a big thing, but there air some things it can't do. One of 'em is ter give brains ter a fool. No school wuz ever yit found thet could change a wooden head ter flesh en blood; en the pore teachers air bein' continua'ly pestered ter death with idiotic payrents a-tryin' to have 'em stuff brains in their kids which the good Lord dident give any to. You kin plant jimson weeds in the garden, en tend 'em and water 'em, en nuss 'em the hull season through, en you'll hev only a leetle bigger crop of jimson seed at the wind-up. En it's jest thet way when brainless cubs air sent off ter collidge!" And the old man wiped his face with a hot towel and went on with his shaving.

There are many pleasant things in this world, but it is the job that allows us to get up when we please in the morning that makes life one grand sweet song.

In Prayer.

Beyond the narrow years Thou sendest me,
Flecked with their sun and shadow, tears and wrong,
Grant me this glory, Father, this to see,--
A world made happy in a world made strong!

The Kingbolt Philosopher.

"Them millionairs kin hev all the money they want en all the fun they kin git outen it," said Uncle Ezra Mudge as he drew on his blue denim wampus and whistled for the hounds, "but I kin git more ra'al fun en pure enjoyment outen a three hour 'coon-hunt with ole Lead then they git outen all theyr tom-foolin' aroun' with awty-mobeels en yats en summer ree-sorts en sea-side foolishness. It takes mighty leetle money ter make a man happy thet loves his work, en all the millions they kin pile up in front of him wouldn't buy a single beller from ole Lead on a hot trail! Come on, Lead!" And the old man strode away through the clearing with all a boy's enthusiasm for the hunt.

The Little Boy Land.

I.

Away in the dim and the dusk of the years
Lies the Little Boy Land of the Soul,
Where the days are alight with the love that endears
And the lullabies tenderly roll;
Where the cares never come with their burdens of woe
To the gates of the kingdom of day,
And the joys are supreme as the little feet go
Through the glorified path ways of play.

II.

There are beautiful curls in the realms over there;
There are cheeks that are rosy and glad;
There are eyes full of glee, never clouded by care,
Never shadowed by tears that are sad;
There are toys for the wishing,--tops, marbles and strings,--
There are ponies no hand may control;
And the moments go by on their wonderful wings
In the Little Boy Land of the Soul.

III.

There are mother's fond kisses, enraptured with love;
There are joys never sullied with stain;
There are dreams brighter far than the dreams born above,
And the raptures that banish all pain;
And the world is so good that it cannot be true,
And its paths lead to Heart's happy goal,
While the joys of content every longing imbue
In the Little Boy Land of the Soul.

IV.

O, Little Boy Land! How afar into wrong
From the vales of your virtues I roam!
How far, since the croon of her lullaby song
I have wandered from mother and home!
But here is a heart that can never forget
Where the joys of our kingdom's yet roll,
And I see through the mists of the eyes that are wet
All the Little Boy Land of the Soul.

Caught on the Fly.

Faith and hope count a hundred, while idleness and discouragement are getting ready to figure.

There are many different motives concealed in the various compartments of man's being, but Vanity holds the key that unlocks them all.

The Kingbolt Philosopher.

"The feller thet is so wibbly-wobbly thet he can't trust his own idees," said Uncle Ezra Mudge as he stopped in the midst of his wood-chopping and leaned up against a log to rest, "is the kind of a feller who never amounts ter shucks in a cow pen. It takes a man who hez kep' hisself in sich a condition thet he knows jist whut he kin depend on when the firin' begins, who allus wins in the bayonet charge. En it don't pay to fool aroun' huntin' up other people's idees before you strike hard licks. Ef you do, the chances air your wood'll be scarce when the cold days blow aroun'!" And the old man spat on his hardened palms and went on with his labor.

In the Best Society.

"It sho'ly costs like ebryti'ng to move in de bes' socieety at Saint Looey!" said a newly arrived Guthrie coon to an old resident. "It jes' erbout takes all de money yuh kin make to keep up wid de pace ob de high flyahs in dat ole town. So I jes' come down heah whar a pooah coon kin hab a good time en save some ob de coin on foh dollahs a week, en git in de bes' culled socieety foh an ole banjo in de week days en two bits in de collection hat on de Sunday mohnin's!"

Be Strong to Dare.

Not he whose craven soul rejects the fight
And flees abjectly from the booming strife
Achieves the summits of his greatest might
Upon the blood-red battle-fields of life.
Be strong to dare! And if the conflict's lost,
Men boast the fight when misers count the cost!

When Mr. Money Comes to Town.

When Mister Money comes to town,
The waiting thousands throng
The crowded highways up and down
To see him pass along;
They cheer him as he passes by,
They clap with loud acclaim,
And shout applauses to the sky
At mention of his name.

They push and jostle with delight
No matter what the day;
They follow him through all the night
To hear what he may say;
They leave old friends divinely sweet
To chase this new one down,
And fall devoutly at his feet
When Money comes to town.

Forgotten all the scenes of yore,--
The joys of other years;
The perfect bliss that went before
And gladdened toils and tears;
Behold! The old things pass away,
And new ones come to crown
The dazzling glories of the day
When Money comes to town.

O, Mister Money! What's your rush!
Why do you hurry so!
Entangled up in all the crush,
I can't get next, you know!
Just come and camp with me and mine!
You'll never see us frown;
To have you with us will be fine
Whene'er you come to town!

Caught on the Fly.

When a man barters his honor for money, he never gets a chance to rue back.

Running this big world must be quite a job, but every man who talks politics thinks himself capable of bossing the whole works.

The next crop that needs looking up in the quotations is the length of the pole required for the persimmons about election day.

Feelin' Fine.

Roas'in' eahs dar on de stalk,--
Millons 'tween de rows;
Eb'ry t'ing a-makin' talk
Gin de crop ob woes;
Hebben come en settles down
On de millon vine;
Dis heah dahkey's shuah in town
Feelin' mos'ly fine!

The Little Feet.

Little feet that weary so
Down the dusty roads,
Pebbled are the paths you go
With your heavy loads,--
When the restless hours are o'er
And you cease to weep,
Little limbs shall ache no more
In the arms of sleep.

Little feet that weary so
On their journey long,
You shall lose the hurts you know
In the smiles of song!
All the lullabies of light,
All the smiles of play,
Romp across the darks of night
Into brighest day.

Little feet that weary so!
Come and let me take
All the heart-aches of your woe
For your baby's sake!
Cuddle on my lap, and flee
From the world's distress;
Let us run away and be
Where the fairies bless!

Caught on the Fly.

The fellow that "soldiers" too much in the hay-field generally soldiers too little in the battle-field of life.

The smile is a lightning-express train that carries you fast and far, while the frown is only a wheel-barrow that you have to push along.

In the battle of life, nothing is gained by deserting your guns to the enemy. Stand by them till the ammunition is gone, whether they are popguns or flint-locks.

* * * * *

If you ever feel inclined to blame a man for making mistakes, just look in the glass and behold the manner of man he is.

* * * * *

The Sunday School is undoubtedly a good place for a boy, but as a corrective measure it cannot be compared to an apple tree limb and a handy wood-shed.

* * * * *

The folks who sit on the back-steps and worry about the future never catch any smiles from the present as she passes the front gate.

Love's Dream.

I.

Love gave me a Dream in the years that have fled
From the glorified joys of her beautiful home,
And over the world of the living and dead
It has followed forever wherever I roam;
And over the mountains and through the black night
It has guided my feet with its wonderful light.

II.

It has joyed at the triumphs that came with renown,
And its rapture surpassed what the multitudes knew;
It has grieved at the failure that lost me the crown,
With a faithful devotion unknown to but few;
Through Despair's heavy shadow and Hope's holy gleam,
How my lips still were kissed by the lips of the Dream!

III.

It has wept with my sorrow,--the sorrow that fell
Where the heart battled hard with the merciless foe;
It has laughed with my laughter when fortune was well
And the blossoms of triumph were blooming below;
And far through the black and the bright of each year
It has followed my feet till it followed me here.

IV.

O, the Dream that has lived through the years of the lost,
That with constancy shares all the paths I have trod,
Never leave me alone till the harbor is crossed
And I stand in the power and the presence of God;
And on through the ages no glory shall seem
Half so sweet as the love of my Dream,--of my Dream!

The Frying Pan.

"With all your talk about necessary house-hold implements," said Sooner Dave, "none of 'em is in it with the frying pan,--just the common, ordinary, every-day frying pan, that you chuck under your buck-board or tie to your saddle-horn. These parlor ornaments, side-boards, new-fangled stoves, potato-mashers, coffee-strainers and all the everlasting tribe of culinary jim-cracks have to turn out of the trail for the frying pan and give it the right of way.

"With the frying pan for his companion, the civilized idiot is at home any where,--prairie or woods, creek bank or deer-lick or prairie-chicken trysting place. With a frying pan and some bacon fat, home is never far away, and a full meal is so near that heaven comes close to the hungry man. It has fought more battles, made more forced marches and won more victories than Napoleon. It has surveyed lands, bunched cattle and soonered claims. It has done all the pioneering for the frontiers-man. In this one divine utensil, the wanderer fries his meat, bakes his flap-jacks and brews his coffee; and as they all come steaming from its exalted circumference of life-sustaining food, what chafing-dish or modern steam-cooker was ever waited on by such a willing appetite?

"When I die," continued Sooner Dave, "I want a frying pan chiseled on my tomb-stone; for it has been the sole companion of the truest happiness I have known in this world. And if over in the next world there is a chance to choose one's crown after the style and finish the wearer may desire, I am going to take my faithful old frying pan along and wear it for a few thousand years just to show the angels how much a man can appreciate good things!"

The Quest.

What matters bog or bramble of delay,--
The mountain slope or shore of ocean reeds?
Pursue thy goal! Thy feet shall find the way
Unerringly where thy One Vision leads!

To the World!

I.

To the world! To the world! Let us carol its song,
Let us conquer its grief and the wrath of its wrong,
Till the lilt of its laughter shall sweeten the sod
With the joys of the skies and the gladness of God!

II.

To the world! To the world! Where the gleam hides the gloom
And the lilies of love on the battle-fields bloom,--
Where the light of the longing lies low on the stream,
And the soul seeks the crown of his dream,--of his dream!

III.

To the world! To the world! To the world that we know
With its sunlights of love and its shadows of woe,--
To the world lifted up, lifted far to His face,
And the mercy that dwells in His bountiful grace!

IV.

To the world! To the world! It has beautiful years
With the pleasurers of peace and the turmoil of tears,
And wherever the feet wander fainting or far
Every day is a sun, every night is a star!

V.

To the world! O, the world! Ah, the fruits of its soil
From the gardens of love drive the terrors of toil,
And the sins that embitter us leave us and then
We shall stand in His presence perfected of men!

The Glory Train.

Yondah stan's de gospel station
Whar de railroad runs away
Foh de house ob many mansions
Ober at de judgment day!
Bettah git a move on, sinnah!
Doan't yuh let yoh folks detain!
Hurry up an' git yuh ticket
Foh de glory train!

It's on time an' sho'lly comin'
Wid on measu'hed powah,
Wid the ingine flames a-spoutin'
Moah dan fohty miles an houah!
Doan't yuh stan' dar jes' a-foolin'!
Wid de judgment on yoh brain!
Hurry up an git yoh ticket
Foh de glory train!

Preachah say yuh have ter hurry,
'Case de kyars go whizzin' by,--
Ef yuh want ter check yoh baggage
Foh de mansions high;
Bid farewell ter ebery pleasuah,
An' de bad wo'ld's burnin' pain;
Hurry up an' git yoh ticket
Foh de glory train!

There are many dainties that hold attractions for the epicure, but in the strenuous times of campaign struggles they all give way to "pie."

The Bright Day.

The bright day, the bright day,
The shadows smiling through,--
The bright day, the bright day
Where Love looks up at you!
The bright day, the bright day!
The sorrows fade from view;
The white day, the light day,
The child heart always knew!
The bright day, the bright day!
The sun is golden there;
The sad clouds are glad clouds
And gone is every care.
The sky life, the high life,
Is waiting at the shore;
The bright day, the bright day,
Shining evermore!

Caught on the Fly.

The wonder of it all is how a fool can ever have any money to be parted from.

When the efficient man appears, there is no juggling with occasion or ceremonious tradition. The instinct of helpless selfishness clothes him on the spot with robe and crown.

Shoot arrows at the sun, if you will; but before you proceed to unload your quiver in that direction, set aside a sufficient reserve fund to discharge squarely at beef-steak and potatoes.

The Kingbolt Philosopher.

"I heered tell," said Uncle Ezra Mudge, "thet one of them-air brass-collared fellers down at St. Looey thinks he hez a baboon thet is the connectin' link betwixt men en monkeys. I seed the same thing over to Lumpkinsville the last time I wuz thar. I guess thet feller must hev gone down thar en caught it en put it in a cage. It wuz in some respects much like a human. It walked on two legs en wore clothes, shoes, a shirt en a hat like a man. It wuz erbout the size ov a fourteen-yar ole boy, en it kep' on smokin' cigerretts all the time. A feller tole me thar it 'ud smoke six boxes ov 'em a day. I don't see whut's the use ov goin' clar to St. Looey to see a thing like thet, when they keep plenty ov 'em as near as Lumpkinsville! Stan'nin' right out on the main streets, too, en not chargin' a-cent to look at it all ye want to!"

If you have the "good resolution habit" swear off on that and do business.

Little Sermons.

The man who has a good appetite needn't worry the Lord with any troubles.

If faith without works is dead, that of the average loafer must be worse than an Egyptian mummy.

The brother with the best lungs may pray the loudest, but that gives him no insurance of a cool place over yonder.

Pretty Good World.

Pretty good world,
If you know how to use it,
Pretty good life
If you never abuse it;
Jog along, brother,
Through pleasure and sorrow;
All will be lovely
With sunshine tomorrow!

There are many patent ways to keep young these days, but we have observed that they all fail after a woman passes forty-five.

Don't estimate your engine power too high. Many a man with a $5,000 education is too small for a 30-cent job.

We Sat and Talked of Other Days.

I.

We sat and talked of other days,--two old and wrinkled men,--
Beyond the dreams of boyish hours and all we fancied then,--
And as we talked our hearts grew warm, and down the noiseless night
We romped again with golden feet and hearts of pure delight.

II.

The dreams we dreamed when life was young and all the world was new
Came back again from vanished ways with raptures smiling through,
And all the high resolves of heart and all the deeds of hand
Returned equipped with robe and crown and showed the Promised Land!

III.

We sat and talked of other days,--the days that went away,--
Of child-hood's dreamy hours of joy and child-hood's heart of play;
And as we talked of other days, forgetting weal or woe,
The boys and girls came back again across the Long Ago.

IV.

We knew this life of men and things with all its griefs and glees
Is not a dream of pleasures sweet or lilt of lullabies;
And yet despite the shadows deep that o'er the sunshine fall,
'Tis always worth the living and its songs are all in all.

V.

We sat and talked of other days! O, days that died unfelt,
Where innocence was crowned with love and all the virtues dwelt;
And in our hearts we sadly knew, whate'er the sages say,
That Heaven romps with us no more since those days went away!

Caught on the Fly.

Finding fault is not hard work, but it is a great waste of valuable time.

"Food for thought" is a popular and necessary brand, but the hungry man entirely overlooks it on the bill of fare.

If you would have a soft berth in this world, you must first run the full-feathered goose down and then do the plucking by your own main strength.

The World All Right.

Don't sing of a bright world
That waits "over there,"
But warble of this world
And banish your care;
Beyond the dark valley
Sweet heaven may be,
But the world is all right
And it's all here for me!
It has a few shadows
And something of tears,
But they only make brighter
The beautiful years;
And this world is so jolly
Whatever may grieve
That I'm not in a hurry
To pull up and leave!

The Kingbolt Philosopher.

"I've noticed," said Uncle Ezra Mudge, "thet many en many a time it ain't knowin' how to git up thet makes a success of a man so much ez knowin' how to git down. Sooner er later a tumble comes rollin' along fer the best of fellers, en before he knows what's a-comin' he's clear down at the bottom of the pile. The feller thet kin git up a-laffin' under sich peculierr sarcumstances is the feller thet wins out en is on top when Gabriel goes to tootin' of his horn; but the feller thet mopes aroun' en talks erbout whut he hez bin instid of tellin' whut he's a-goin' ter be is kivered over in the scrap-heap, world without end, ferever en ever, Amen!" And the old man knocked the ashes from his Missouri meerschaum and ambled into the kitchen where the long green hung.

God Give Us Change!

God give us change! The days are long
With labors hard that make us weary,
And o'er the gladness of each song
There floats a cadence somewhat dreary;
We'd like to loaf awhile, for--say--
Some five or ten sweet years, or twenty,
And chase the dull cares all away;
God give us change and give us plenty!
God give us change! The dull days flow
With quietude that palls a little;
Just anything to make it go
And heat the steam up in the kettle;
No matter how the fortunes kind
In dull monotony prove pleasant,
We'd rather mix things up and find
A stirring scramble of the present!
We do not ask for all the gifts
To fall upon us in a tumble;
A very few where life's boat drifts
Will keep us happy through the jumble;
We only ask the mirth of men,--
Where'er we be we'll always love it,
And if the big bills vanish, then
God give us change and plenty of it!

"The Sooners."

The "Sooners" may have their faults, but as a general propositions they are to be preferred to the "laters." Every good thing that has blest mankind since Adam had his celebrated adventure with green goods in the Garden of Eden, has been discovered, invented, dug out or dug up, by a "sooner." He has always been a dare-devil whose courage was so prominent as to attract the envy and malice of every "later" that whittled dry-goods boxes into splinters and used his time to cuss "the government." God bless the whole "sooner" tribe, say I, from Adam down to General Kuroki!

The home lights! The home lights!
How they blaze and burn
Through the darkness of the shadows
Everywhere we turn!
What if stormy weather gather
On the hills we roam,
We shall refuge find forever
In the lights of home!

Stand Pat.

In the mighty game of life,
Stand pat!
Don't be moved by storm or strife,
Stand pat!
Keep within your heart a song,
And the days will not be long,
Till you conquer every wrong,--
Stand pat, stand pat!
Don't be bluffed by this or that,--
Stand pat!
Half the howls are chitter-chat,--
Stand pat!
When you hold the ruling hand
You are always in command,
And you'll surely beat the band.--
Stand pat, stand pat!
There's no need to draw or fill,
Stand pat!
Play your cards to make a kill,
Stand pat!
If there's one that wants to raise,
Back your last chip while he plays
Till the chump no longer stays,--
Stand pat, stand pat!
There's a stack of reds and blues,
Stand pat!
For the chap that knows their use,
Stand pat!
When the game is o'er and won
Are the stakes that urged us on,
God will cash our chips at dawn,--
Stand pat, stand pat!

The Valleys of Rest.

I.

What matters it, Dear, though the burdens be sore?
In the Valleys of Rest we shall weary no more,
And the music of mirth with its solace shall sing
All the songs of delight the beatitudes bring!

II.

Nevermore shall the days with the sorrows be sad
Where the love-roses bloom and the joy-mornings glad--
Where the violets dream through the east and the west
Of the beautiful lands in the Valleys of Rest!

III.

There the heart from its grief in a moment shall cease,
And the soul hush its cries in the cadence of peace,
And the life with the laughter of rhapsody blest
Shall rejoice through the years in the Valleys of Rest.

IV.

O, the dear dreams that fled down the deeps of the past
That await with their welcomes our coming at last;
And the lips of our love that our lips never pressed
Smiling there for their own in the Valleys of Rest!

V.

O, the raptures that stay for our glorified feet
When the joys of the past and the future shall meet,--
When the hopes of the years shall return from their quest
For the love-crowns of life in the Valleys of Rest!

VI.

Ah, the days, Dear, the days with their griefs and their glees
Sail away on swift ships o'er eternity's seas;
But at last we shall anchor with Love for our guest
On the Paradise shores by the Valleys of Rest!

The Ignorance of the Court.

They tell a good story over at Guthrie at Judge Burford's expense. Recently, an old Tennessee darkey, charged with stealing chickens, was brought into court for trial. The facts were all against him. He had no attorney, and when the Judge asked him if he wanted an attorney appointed to defend him, he declared that he did not.

"But you are entitled to a lawyer," the court explained, "and you might as well have the benefit of his services!"

"Yoh Honah would jes' a'pint me some ob dese hyah po'ah white trash lawyehs," the old darkey replied, "an' he wouldn't do me no good. Ef it's jes' de same to you, jedge, I'd ruthah depen' on de ignorance ob de couht!"

The Quest for Joy.

I.

A phantom I follow forever through all of the shadow and shine,
Whose face is fair as the blossom, whose form is as warm as the wine;
Whose lips are as sweet as the dewfalls that velvet the mornings of
June,
And eyes as the deep stars of Autumn that glow in the glories of noon!

II.

A phantom I follow forever! Yet never on ocean or land
Have I heard the sweet voice of her music or leaped at the thrill of
her hand,
And never, ah, never a greeting she gives that is tender and kind,
As I follow through mazes of beauty where flowers in her foot-steps I
find!

III.

A phantom I follow forever! What matter though careless of me,
She drifts to the sands of the desert and sails on the wave-tossing sea?
With foot never parched by the barrens, with boat never broken by storm,
I follow, I follow her passing and clutch at the wraith of her form!

IV.

And still I will follow the phantom!
Whatever the questing may seem
I'll conquer the spoil of her glory and climb to the crown of her dream;
And over the deeps of my yearning and over the hills of my hope,
She leads and I follow forever, wherever her phantasies grope!

V.

And there at the last I shall find her--the angel that led me afar,--
And we shall rejoice in the raptures where all the beatitudes are,
And whether the journey be little, or whether the journey be long,
I press the red lips of her beauty and leap at the lilt of her song!

Caught on the Fly.

When Misfortune concludes to pay you a visit, she pushes the door open and walks in without knocking.

Woman's inhumanity to man,--the one she has and the other she wants,--maketh the divorce lawyer fat with ali-money.

Temptation is the dangerous banana-peel on the side-walk of upright conduct; and even the bare foot sometimes takes a fall-down.

Too Busy.

Trouble will double
If trouble gets room,
But will pine if you leave her
And die in her gloom;
For trouble is lonesome
And moans from the start
If you face her with firmness
And lock up your heart

Sorrow will borrow
Wherever she can,
But will leave when you tell her
You're never her man;
Don't flirt with the vixen,
Don't welcome her face,
But exhort her to leave you
For some warmer place.

Make Trouble and Sorrow,--
The couple that moans--
Keep out of your pathway
And limp on the stones
Just let them go weeping
Through all of the years;
For a man is too busy
To join in their tears.

"When the Crow's Feet Come."

When we reach the Land of Forty,
And the hot blood cools a jot,
There's a mighty sight of changes
In our vision, like as not;
And we sober down a little
As we figure up life's sum
When we waken in the morning
And the crow's feet come.

When they scratch their little wrinkles
Round the corner of the eyes
We begin to chase the creatures
In a horrified surprise;
But they cling with cool persistence
And our hearts are stricken dumb
For we know they'll never leave us
When the crow's feet come.

We may tonic and cosmetic,
We may take our beauty sleep;
We may rub and punch and powder
But the claws go deep and deep;
And before we understand it
All our beauty's on the bum
For the years are turning yellow
When the crow's feet come!

But it's all the way of Nature!
There's no use to sob or sigh,
'Cause the chin takes on a wobble
And the wrinkles wrap the eye;
If we heap our hearts with gladness
Life with music still shall hum,
Though we reach the Land of Forty
And the crow's feet come!

A Welcome for Winter.

I.

A welcome for Winter! Though summer shall fade,
There is joy on the prairies her bounties have made,
And the Land of the Sunshine all happiness knows
Through the days of the shadows and nights of the snows!

II.

A welcome for Winter! What matters the cold
Which the harvest has warmed with the russet and gold?
All the valleys of plenty shall laugh through the white
Of the snow-laden day and the storm-ridden night.

III.

A welcome for Winter! Though June, rosy-red,
Has plucked all her blossoms and frightened far fled,
There are hives with their honeys and granaries sweet,
And the fiddles of music with spring for the feet!

IV.

A welcome for Winter! If far from the days
All the lilies have gone from the violet ways,
There is joy that will dance o'er the meadows and sing,
Where the carols of plenty their blessedness bring.

V.

Then, ho, for the Winter! There's love on the hills,
There is laughter and peace by the ice-covered rills,
And the hearts shall rejoice in the songs that arise
In the raptures that roll under storm-laden skies!

Caught on the Fly.

Some people act on an idea that work is so sacred they fear to touch it least they profane its divine nature.

Opportunity is a beautiful bird, but so shy that it feeds on the wing and never alights long enough for a common man to pluck its plumage.

Every man has within him the essentials of exalted greatness; but most of us are so enmeshed in small follies that the greatness cannot break through.

The Kingbolt Philosopher.

"I've lived off en on in this land of Trouble fer mor'n seventy years," said Uncle Ezra Mudge, as he adjusted a shingle-nail in place of a missing button for a suspender hold. "En I never yit got a chance ter shake han's with him. I hev hearn tell thet he is a mighty big feller, but my observation is thet when you onct git up close to whayre he's a-stayin', he shrivels up so under a brave look frum honest eyes thet you hev ter git a maggifyin' glass ter diskiver the kind ov an animile he actu'lly is!"

When Willie Goes to School.

When Willie goes to school, it seems
The house has lost its light,
And silence like a shadow dreams
Of sunshine out of sight;
The place assumes a somber air,
And lonely musings rule
The moments slowly passing there
When Willie goes to school.

We hustle him from bed, and tell
To quickly wash and comb,
His breakfast eat, and gather well
The books he carried home;
We brush his coat and fix his tie,
And with him fuss and fool,
And kiss him as he hurries by
When Willie goes to school.

And all day long we anxious wait
To hear his foot-steps fast,
Make music sweet there at the gate
When he comes home at last!
The lonely heart with rapture fills
And life's hot warrings cool,
And all the home with laughter thrills
When Willie comes from school!

Ah, World, the school that young hearts seek!
We know full well that you
Will keep him long at tasks that speak
Of books and ferule, too!
God grant that in the far-off years
He finds no dunce's stool,
Whereon to weep with foolish tears
When Willie goes to school!

'Tis Morning on the Hill-tops.

I.

What though the valleys wander in shadows manifold?
'Tis morning on the hill-tops and all the skies are gold,
And on the purple summits the raptures of the blest
Are crooning their evangels and singing songs of rest!

II.

'Tis morning on the hill-tops? The darkness at the feet
Shall blossom at the dawning with all the roses sweet,
And every grief we gather and every tear we know
Shall vanish into gladness as up the paths we go.

III.

'Tis morning on the hill-tops! The glories of His love
With life and light supernal are waiting there above,
And up the slopes of shadow our weary feet shall climb
To kiss the smiles of rapture beyond the tears of time.

IV.

'Tis morning on the hill-tops! What matters sob or sin?
The Master waits our coming and welcomes us within;
And there beyond the shadows where gladness reigns alway
We'll meet the hosts of morning, and dwell with them for aye.

V.

O, Morning on the Hill-tops! The dim eyes look to you,
Beyond the darkened valleys and all the griefs they knew,
And to the sunshine waiting in realms of rhapsody,
The paths lead on and upward to where you wait for me!

The Defeated.

Not he who loses but who fails to fight,
In God's long years reaps harvestings of blame;
Not he the blind but who destroys the sight
Receives the curses of the ages' blame!

See the Side-Show.

When you visit at the circus
And behold the steeds bedight,
And the hoops and rings and races
And the clowns that make delight,--
You will miss the happy touches
That complete your broadest grin
If you see the main performance
And don't take the side-show in.

There'll be high and lofty tumbles,
There'll be acrobatic feats,
There'll be leaps and bounds and twistings,
That will lift you from your seats;
But with all the glare and glitter,
You'll but know the fun begin,
If you see the main performance
And don't take the side-show in.

There'll be elephants and lions.
There'll be bears and tigers, too;
There'll be clowns in robes and spangles
All to please the boy in you;
But the raptures of your gladness
Nothing can completely win,
If you see the main performance
And don't take the side-show in.

Life is something of a circus:
It has half a hundred rings
Where its jumbled aggregation
Earth's attractions to you brings;
But they leave the heart still heavy
As it stirs with stress and din,
If you see the main performance
And don't take the side-show in!

Voting Around.

"Well, Sam, how's cotton-picking getting along?" asked a white man of his colored neighbor.

"Hain't doin' any cotton-pickin' yit," replied Sam. "'Lection time's a-comin' an' I'm jes' a-votin' erroun' tell the candahdates quit runnin'!"

Little Sermons.

Religion is too often what the other fellow ought to practice.

Good never bears any fruit for you, except when cultivated in your own heart.

The devil always has a patent medicine recommended to cure trouble and increase pleasure.

Examine the looks of your conscience. It may be only prejudice that has placed its hand-baggage in the wrong room.

We are always glad to gather the harvest, which is abundant for the whole world, but are willing to leave the weed-pulling to the other fellow.

Love Brings the Song.

What if there's trouble
And what if there's wrong?
God sends the sunshine
And Love brings the song!

What if you stumble
When racing it strong?
Love will uplift you,
For Love brings the song!

Bury your troubles,
And life will be long:
God sends the sunshine
And Love brings the song!

Mistah Cotton.

Mistah Cotton come toh me
In de young spring-time,
En he say, say he toh me,
"Sambo, bet yuh dime,
Dat you'll never pick dat patch!
Dat I'll fool yuh crap,
Fer de weeds'll make a catch
En de bolls'll drap!"

Den I chase him up en down,
En I take his bet;
Chop dat cotton clar toh town;
How dis niggah sweat!
En I plow him sho'ly fine,--
Wo'k him day en night,
En de fust t'ing, how he shine
Wid de rows ob white!

Mistah Cotton, doan't yuh t'ink
Yuh kin fool me now;
I'll dis pick yuh quick es wink,--
Lemme show yuh how!
Pile yuh in de wagon-bed,
Sell yuh, ting a ling!
How de silvah-dallahs spread
Dat sweet song dey sing!

Don't use a telescope to discover your neighbor's faults. Even the sun has a few spots, but it would be a cold day for you without the glory of his shine.

Hear the Song.

I

There are dark and gloomy corners full of sorrow, like as not,
But the world is glad with music and it carols everywhere;
And if now and then a shadow dwells upon a little spot,
There is sunshine on the meadows and the wide ways laugh at care.

O, my children! Don't you worry,
As you go along;
Let your life be glad and cheerful
And you'll hear the Song!

II.

As we wander down the valleys where the griefs of life assail,
We will find a few obstructions that are heaping in the road;
But with feet that never weary and with hearts that never quail,
We shall mount the glory-summits to the Summer-lands' abode.

O, my children! Don't you weary
As you go along;
Climb the path-ways to the hill-tops,
And you'll hear the Song!

III.

You will bend beneath the burdens as you meet the toils of life,
And your arms will ache a little as you labor down the way;
But the rest of God's perfection waits beyond the bitter strife
And He crowns the souls that struggle with His Everlasting Day!

O, my children! Don't you murmur,
As you go along;
Look above to God's Anointed,
And you'll hear the Song!

Caught on the Fly.

When Love leaves life, Laughter packs up her things and gets ready to move.

When Hope dies in the heart, all its poor relations refuse to remain for the funeral services.

The people who are all the time trying to manage other people should remember that though Providence created Man in His own image, it has been unable to manage him ever since.

"When Canderdates Git After Pa."

When canderdates git after Pa,
Set up seegars, an' tell him flat
How big a man he is, and Ma
How good she cooks, an' all of that,
I slip aroun' an' let 'em know
I'm something on the homestead, too,
Fer onct upon a time or so
They'll hand a nickel out fer you!

When they come here, it's mighty fine!
Pa stops the team, an' work we quit
An' them there fellere stays to dine
An' talk the day-lights outen it!
They tell us how the gover'ment
Is goin' on, an' quote the law
An' tell their choice fer president,
When canderdates git after Pa!

An' then they'll brag about his farm;
How fine his hogs an' hosses air;
How slick his cattle, till my arm
Gits tired at all the jollies there!
An' then they tell Ma she's a peach,
A honey-lulu without flaw,
A angel fur beyond their reach,
When canderdates git after Pa.

When after dinner they hitch up
He sends me out to feed the shoats,
An' then they drink with nary cup
An' talk about the township votes;
An' after they git gone, Pa he
Has got a breath that's orful raw;
But I tell you it's nuts to me
When canderdates git after Pa!

Don't Worry.

O, brother, don't you worry,--
Don't you sob or sigh;
Just soak yourself with sunshine
And let the world go by!
What matters all, my brother.
The world may do or say?
For you and I outlive the sky
And it lives but a day!

* * * * *

Keep at work, my brother;
Keep at work I say!
There's not a cosy corner
For lazy ones that play;
And as through life you labor
And gladly jog along,
Just soak yourself with sunshine
And fill your heart with song!

Little Sermons.

If Heaven is too far away for you to reach out and shake hands with it, there is something wrong with your conduct.

If this life isn't worth living well, how do you expect to take one with you into another world that will be worth any more?

While you are praying for the unregenerate sinners of this world, don't forget to put in a word now and then for your own personal benefit.

"The Lord is Good to Me."

"The Lord is good to me!" he said,
As on his bended knees he knelt
Above his meager crust of bread
And voiced the gratitude he felt;
And from his supplications, he
Arose with strength renewed to face
The pinchings of his poverty,
The sorrows of his humble place.

"The Lord is good to me!" she prayed
Above her sleeping babe at rest,
While smiles of exaltation played
Across her features, care oppressed;
And from the crib of anguish where
The fever-wasted baby slept
She happy slipped away from care
And all the anxious tears she wept.

"The Lord is good to me!" he cried
'Mid life's wild wreck as close he grasped
The scattered fragments to his side
Of millions lost that once he clasped:
And with a peace and thankfulness
He never knew when Fortune smiled,
He put behind him all distress
And laughed as lightly as a child.

"The Lord is good to me!" How slight
The gifts of God we grateful bless,
While countless treasures of delight
Escape the praise of thankfulness!
Through days of sunshine and of rain,
Through nights of griefs and rhapsody,
How I forget with high disdain
How much the Lord is good to me!

Caught on the Fly.

In these days of beef trust domination, every man is known by the breakfast food he eats.

The charity that covers a multitude of sins generally runs mighty short of blankets in the winter time.

Fishing poles are now out of date, but the candidates are bidding mighty lively for the pole that is long enough to reach the persimmon.

A Doubtful Voter.

"Well, Jimmy, how's your Pa getting along with his corn-shucking and cotton picking?" inquired Bill Smith of his neighbor's son, which neighbor was noted for his industry and thrifty habits.

"Pap's gittin' erlong fine with 'em," answered the boy. "Ye see there's five county tickets in the field a-runnin' this year, an' pap's a doubtful voter; an' whenever a candidate comes, pap jes' goes erlong shuckin' corn or pickin' cotton, an' the candidate helps him fer the sake of comp'ny. We've got all our corn shucked, en ef we hev no bad weather, there won't be cotton enough left to pick by 'lection day to lint yer whiskers with!"

Another Vintage.

"It is more of the Spirit of '76 that we need!" shouted the campaign orator.

"I haven't any of the spirits of '76," broke in a bystander in the audience. "But I've a quart of 'white mule' here in my pocket as fine as was ever brewed, if that will relieve your wants any!"

Providence Takes Care of his Own.

"De Lawd am pow'ful good to de culled fokes," said a negro philosopher speaking from his dusky meditations. "No soonah am de wohtah-millions gone de way ob all de yarth dan de pahsimmons git ripe ernuff toh make de possum fat, bress de Lawd!"

Forgotten.

He conquered all the foes that bannered wrong;
He strove with might and did heroic deeds;
Yet nameless he; for to his lofty meeds
None wrought the immortality of song.

Give Us More.

No matter how the world may go,
How high it heaps our store,
For all the joys that banish woe
We always wish for more!

And from the cares that fume and fret,
We cry as e'er before:
"We thank thee, Lord, for what we get,
But give us more,--still more!"

In Yearning Mood.

I.

Turn back, O Time, to where the young years rove
And smile with rosy lips and sing through joyous days;
The dull feet grow so heavy, and so far the ways
They wander from my love!

II.