It Can Be Done Part 29

A rooster one morning was preening his feathers That glistened so bright in the sun; He admired the tints of the various colors As he laid them in place one by one.

Now as roosters go he was a fine bird, And he should have been satisfied; But suddenly there as he marched along, Some peac.o.c.k feathers he spied.

They had beautiful spots and their colors were gay-- He wished that his own could be green; He dropped his tail, tried to hide it away; Was completely ashamed to be seen.

Then his foolish mind hatched up a scheme-- A peac.o.c.k yet he could be; So he hopped behind a bush to undress Where the other fowls could not see.

He caught his own tail between his bill, And pulled every feather out; And into the holes stuck the peac.o.c.k plumes; Then proudly strutted about.

The other fowls rushed to see the queer sight; And the peac.o.c.ks came when they heard; They could not agree just what he was, But p.r.o.nounced him a funny bird.

Then the chickens were angry that one of their kind Should try to be a peac.o.c.k; And the peac.o.c.ks were mad that one with their tail Should belong to a common fowl flock.

So the chickens beset him most cruelly behind, And yanked his whole tail out together; The peac.o.c.ks attacked him madly before, And pulled out each chicken feather.

And when he stood stripped clean down to the skin, A horrible thing to the rest, He learned this sad lesson when it was too late-- As his own simple self he was best.

_Joseph Morris._

KEEP ON KEEPIN' ON

The author of these homely stanzas has caught perfectly the spirit which succeeds in the rough-and-tumble of actual life.

If the day looks kinder gloomy And your chances kinder slim, If the situation's puzzlin'

And the prospect's awful grim, If perplexities keep pressin'

Till hope is nearly gone, Just bristle up and grit your teeth And keep on keepin' on.

Frettin' never wins a fight And fumin' never pays; There ain't no use in broodin'

In these pessimistic ways; Smile just kinder cheerfully Though hope is nearly gone, And bristle up and grit your teeth And keep on keepin' on.

There ain't no use in growlin'

And grumblin' all the time, When music's ringin' everywhere And everything's a rhyme.

Just keep on smilin' cheerfully If hope is nearly gone, And bristle up and grit your teeth And keep on keepin' on.

_Anonymous._

THE DISAPPOINTED

Those who have striven n.o.bly and failed deserve sympathy. Sometimes they deserve also praise unreserved, in that they have refused to do something ign.o.ble which would have led to what the world calls success.

They have lived the idea which Macbeth merely proclaimed:

"I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none."

There are songs enough for the hero Who dwells on the heights of fame; I sing of the disappointed-- For those who have missed their aim.

I sing with a tearful cadence For one who stands in the dark, And knows that his last, best arrow Has bounded back from the mark.

I sing for the breathless runner, The eager, anxious soul, Who falls with his strength exhausted.

Almost in sight of the goal;

For the hearts that break in silence, With a sorrow all unknown, For those who need companions, Yet walk their ways alone.

There are songs enough for the lovers Who share love's tender pain, I sing for the one whose pa.s.sion Is given all in vain.

For those whose spirit comrades Have missed them on their way, I sing, with a heart o'erflowing, This minor strain to-day.

And I know the Solar system Must somewhere keep in s.p.a.ce A prize for that spent runner Who barely lost the race.

For the plan would be imperfect Unless it held some sphere That paid for the toil and talent And love that are wasted here.

_Ella Wheeler Wilc.o.x._

From "Picked Poems."

LET ME LIVE OUT MY YEARS

We speak of the comforts and ease of old age, but our n.o.blest selves do not really desire them. We want to do more than exist. We want to be alive to the very last.

Let me live out my years in heat of blood!

Let me die drunken with the dreamer's wine!

Let me not see this soul-house built of mud Go toppling to the dust--a vacant shrine!

Let me go quickly like a candle light Snuffed out just at the heyday of its glow!

Give me high noon--and let it then be night!

Thus would I go.

And grant that when I face the grisly Thing, My song may triumph down the gray Perhaps!

Let me be as a tuneswept fiddlestring That feels the Master Melody--and snaps.

_John G. Neihardt_

From "The Quest" (collected lyrics).