It Can Be Done Part 8

_Alfred Noyes._

From "Collected Poems."

CAN YOU SING A SONG?

Nothing lifts the spirit more than a song, especially the _inward_ song of a worker who can sound it alike at the beginning of his task, in the heat of midday, and in the weariness and cool of the evening.

Can you sing a song to greet the sun, Can you cheerily tackle the work to be done, Can you vision it finished when only begun, Can you sing a song?

Can you sing a song when the day's half through, When even the thought of the rest wearies you, With so little done and so much to do, Can you sing a song?

Can you sing a song at the close of the day, When weary and tired, the work's put away, With the joy that it's done the best of the pay, Can you sing a song?

_Joseph Morris._

KNOW THYSELF

It seems impossible that human beings could endure so much until we realize that they _have_ endured it. The spirit of man performs miracles; it transcends the limitations of flesh and blood. It is like Uncle Remus's account of Brer Rabbit climbing a tree. "A rabbit couldn't do that," the little boy protested. "He did," Uncle Remus responded; "he was jes' 'bleeged to."

Reined by an unseen tyrant's hand, Spurred by an unseen tyrant's will, Aquiver at the fierce command That goads you up the danger hill, You cry: "O Fate, O Life, be kind!

Grant but an hour of respite--give One moment to my suffering mind!

I can not keep the pace and live."

But Fate drives on and will not heed The lips that beg, the feet that bleed.

Drives, while you faint upon the road, Drives, with a menace for a goad; With fiery reins of circ.u.mstance Urging his terrible advance The while you cry in your despair, "The pain is more than I can bear!"

Fear not the goad, fear not the pace, Plead not to fall from out the race-- It is your own Self driving you, Your Self that you have never known, Seeing your little self alone.

Your Self, high-seated charioteer, Master of cowardice and fear, Your Self that sees the shining length Of all the fearful road ahead, Knows that the terrors that you dread Are pigmies to your splendid strength; Strength you have never even guessed, Strength that has never needed rest.

Your Self that holds the mastering rein, Seeing beyond the sweat and pain And anguish of your driven soul, The patient beauty of the goal!

Fighting upon the terror field Where man and Fate came breast to breast, Prest by a thousand foes to yield, Tortured and wounded without rest, You cried: "Be merciful, O Life-- The strongest spirit soon must break Before this all-unequal strife, This endless fight for failure's sake!"

But Fate, unheeding, lifted high His sword, and thrust you through to die, And then there came one strong and great, Who towered high o'er Chance and Fate, Who bound your wound and eased your pain And bade you rise and fight again.

And from some source you did not guess Gushed a great tide of happiness-- A courage mightier than the sun-- You rose and fought and, fighting, won!

It was your own Self saving you, Your Self no man has ever known, Looking on flesh and blood alone.

That Self that lives so close to G.o.d As roots that feed upon the sod.

That one who stands behind the screen, Looks through the window of your eyes-- A being out of Paradise.

The Self no human eye has seen, The living one who never tires, Fed by the deep eternal fires.

Your flaming Self, with two-edged sword, Made in the likeness of the Lord, Angel and guardian at the gate, Master of Death and King of Fate!

_Angela Morgan._

From "The Hour Has Struck."

JUST WHISTLE

There is a psychological benefit in the mere physical act of whistling.

When the body makes music, the spirit falls into harmonies too and the discords that a.s.sail us cease to make themselves heard.

When times are bad an' folks are sad An' gloomy day by day, Jest try your best at lookin' glad An' whistle 'em away.

Don't mind how troubles bristle, Jest take a rose or thistle.

Hold your own An' change your tone An' whistle, whistle, whistle!

A song is worth a world o' sighs.

When red the lightnings play, Look for the rainbow in the skies An' whistle 'em away.

Don't mind how troubles bristle, The rose comes with the thistle.

Hold your own An' change your tone An' whistle, whistle, whistle!

Each day comes with a life that's new, A strange, continued story But still beneath a bend o' blue The world rolls on to glory.

Don't mind how troubles bristle, Jest take a rose or thistle.

Hold your own An' change your tone An' whistle, whistle, whistle!

_Frank L. Stanton._

[Ill.u.s.tration: GRANTLAND RICE]

"MIGHT HAVE BEEN"

"Yes, it's pretty hard," the optimistic old woman admitted. "I have to get along with only two teeth, one in the upper jaw and one in the lower--but thank G.o.d, they meet."

Here's to "The days that might have been"; Here's to "The life I might have led"; The fame I might have gathered in-- The glory ways I might have sped.