It Can Be Done Part 32

When you think you're trouble hit, Laugh a little bit.

Look misfortune in the face.

Brave the beldam's rude grimace; Ten to one 'twill yield its place, If you have the wit and grit Just to laugh a little bit.

Keep your face with sunshine lit, Laugh a little bit.

All the shadows off will flit, If you have the grit and wit Just to laugh a little bit.

Cherish this as sacred writ-- Laugh a little bit.

Keep it with you, sample it, Laugh a little bit.

Little ills will sure betide you, Fortune may not sit beside you, Men may mock and fame deride you, But you'll mind them not a whit If you laugh a little bit.

_Edmund Vance Cooke._

From "A Patch of Pansies."

A SONG OF LIFE

Many of us merely exist, and think that we live. What we should regain at all costs is freshness and intensity of being. This need not involve turbulent activity. It may involve quite the opposite.

Say not, "I live!"

Unless the morning's trumpet brings A shock of glory to your soul, Unless the ecstasy that sings Through rushing worlds and insects' wings, Sends you upspringing to your goal, Glad of the need for toil and strife, Eager to grapple hands with Life-- Say not, "I live!"

Say not, "I live!"

Unless the energy that rings Throughout this universe of fire A challenge to your spirit flings, Here in the world of men and things, Thrilling you with a huge desire To mate your purpose with the stars, To shout with Jupiter and Mars-- Say not, "I live!"

Say not, "I live!"

Such were a libel on the Plan Blazing within the mind of G.o.d Ere world or star or sun began.

Say rather, with your fellow man, "I grub; I burrow in the sod."

Life is not life that does not flame With consciousness of whence it came-- Say not, "I live!"

_Angela Morgan._

From "The Hour Has Struck."

A POOR UNFORTUNATE

Things are never so bad but they might have been worse. An immigrant into the South paid a negro to bring him a wild turkey. The next day he complained: "You shouldn't shoot at the turkey's body, Rastus. Shoot at his head. The flesh of that turkey was simply full of shot." "Boss,"

said the negro, "dem shot was meant for me."

I

His hoss went dead an' his mule went lame; He lost six cows in a poker game; A harricane came on a summer's day, An' carried the house whar' he lived away; Then a airthquake come when that wuz gone, An' swallered the lan' that the house stood on!

An' the tax collector, _he_ come roun'

An' charged him up fer the hole in the groun'!

An' the city marshal--he come in view An' said he wanted his street tax, too!

II

Did he moan an' sigh? Did he set an' cry An' cuss the harricane sweepin' by?

Did he grieve that his ol' friends failed to call When the airthquake come an' swallered all?

Never a word o' blame he said, With all them troubles on top his head!

Not _him_.... He clumb to the top o' the hill-- Whar' standin' room wuz left him still, An', barin' his head, here's what he said: "I reckon it's time to git up an' git; But, Lord, I hain't had the measels yit!"

_Frank L. Stanton._

From "The Atlanta Const.i.tution."

THE TRAINERS

To Franklin, seeking recognition and aid for his country at the French court, came news of an American disaster. "Howe has taken Philadelphia,"

his opponents taunted him. "Oh, no," he answered, "Philadelphia has taken Howe." He shrewdly foresaw that the very magnitude of what the British had done would lull them into overconfidence and inaction, and would stir the Americans to more determined effort. Above all, he himself was undisturbed; for to the strong-hearted, trials and reverses are instruments of final success.

My name is Trouble--I'm a busy bloke-- I am the test of Courage--and of Cla.s.s-- I bind the coward to a bitter yoke, I drive the craven from the crowning pa.s.s; Weaklings I crush before they come to fame; But as the red star guides across the night, I train the stalwart for a better game; I drive the brave into a harder fight.

My name is Hard Luck--the wrecker of rare dreams-- I follow all who seek the open fray; I am the shadow where the far light gleams For those who seek to know the open way; Quitters I break before they reach the crest, But where the red field echoes with the drums, I build the fighter for the final test And mold the brave for any drive that comes.

My name is Sorrow--I shall come to all To block the surfeit of an endless joy; Along the Sable Road I pay my call Before the sweetness of success can cloy; And weaker souls shall weep amid the throng And fall before me, broken and dismayed; But braver hearts shall know that I belong And take me in, serene and unafraid.

My name's Defeat--but through the bitter fight, To those who know, I'm something more than friend; For I can build beyond the wrath of might And drive away all yellow from the blend; For those who quit, I am the final blow, But for the brave who seek their chance to learn, I show the way, at last, beyond the foe, To where the scarlet flames of triumph burn.

_Grantland Rice._

From "The Sportlight."

LIFE

Most of us have failed or gone astray in one fashion or another, at one time or another. But we need not become despondent at such times. We should resolve to reap the full benefit of the discovery of our weakness, our folly.