It Can Be Done Part 26

Any one who has ridden across the continent on a train must marvel at the faith and imagination of the engineers who constructed the road--the topographical advantages seized, the grades made easy of ascent, the curves and straight stretches planned, the tunnels so carefully calculated that workmen beginning on opposite sides of a mountain met in the middle--and all this visualized and thought out before the actual work was begun. Faith has such foresight, such courage, whether it toils actively or can merely bide its time.

The tree-top, high above the barren field, Rising beyond the night's gray folds of mist, Rests stirless where the upper air is sealed To perfect silence, by the faint moon kissed.

But the low branches, drooping to the ground, Sway to and fro, as sways funereal plume, While from their restless depths low whispers sound: "We fear, we fear the darkness and the gloom; Dim forms beneath us pa.s.s and reappear, And mournful tongues are menacing us here."

Then from the topmost bough falls calm reply: "Hush, hush, I see the coming of the morn; Swiftly the silent night is pa.s.sing by, And in her bosom rosy Dawn is borne.

'Tis but your own dim shadows that ye see, 'Tis but your own low moans that trouble ye."

So Life stands, with a twilight world around; Faith turned serenely to the steadfast sky, Still answering the heart that sweeps the ground Sobbing in fear, and tossing restlessly-- "Hush, hus.h.!.+ The Dawn breaks o'er the Eastern sea, 'Tis but thine own dim shadow troubling thee."

_Edward Rowland Sill._

From "Poems."

PLAYING THE GAME

We all like the good sport--the man who plays fair and courteously and with every ounce of his energy, even when the game is going against him.

Life is a game with a glorious prize, If we can only play it right.

It is give and take, build and break, And often it ends in a fight; But he surely wins who honestly tries (Regardless of wealth or fame), He can never despair who plays it fair-- How are you playing the game?

Do you wilt and whine, if you fail to win In the manner you think your due?

Do you sneer at the man in case that he can And does, do better than you?

Do you take your rebuffs with a knowing grin?

Do you laugh tho' you pull up lame?

Does your faith hold true when the whole world's blue?

How are you playing the game?

Get into the thick of it--wade in, boys!

Whatever your cherished goal; Brace up your will till your pulses thrill, And you dare--to your very soul!

Do something more than make a noise; Let your purpose leap into flame As you plunge with a cry, "I shall do or die,"

Then you will be playing the game.

_Anonymous_.

WHAT DARK DAYS DO

A real man does not want all his barriers leveled. He of course welcomes easy tasks, but he welcomes hard ones also. The difficult or unpleasant thing puts him on his mettle, throws him on his own resources. It gives him something of

"The stern joy which warriors feel In foemen worthy of their steel."

Moreover as a foil or contrast it enables him to value more truly the good things he constantly enjoys, perhaps without perceiving them.

I sorter like a gloomy day, Th' kind that jest _won't_ smile; It makes a feller hump hisself T' make life seem wuth while.

When sun's a-s.h.i.+nin' an' th' sky Is washed out bright an' gay, It ain't no job to whistle--but It is-- When skies air gray!

So gloomy days air good fer us, They make us look about To find our blessin's--make us count The friends who never doubt, Most any one kin smile and joke And hold blue-devils back When it is bright, but we must work T' grin-- When skies air black!

That's why I sorter _like_ dark days, That put it up to me To keep th' gloom from soakin' in My whole anatomy!

An' if they _never_ come along My soul would surely rust-- Th' dark days keeps my cheerfulness From draggin'

In th' dust!

_Everard Jack Appleton._

From "The Quiet Courage."

GLADNESS

A coal miner does not need the sun's illumination. He carries his own light.

The world has brought not anything To make me glad to-day!

The swallow had a broken wing, And after all my journeying There was no water in the spring-- My friend has said me nay.

But yet somehow I needs must sing As on a luckier day.

Dusk fails as gray as any tear, There is no hope in sight!

But something in me seems so fair, That like a star I needs must wear A safety made of s.h.i.+ning air Between me and the night.

Such inner weavings do I wear All fas.h.i.+oned of delight!

I need not for these robes of mine The loveliness of earth, But happenings remote and fine Like threads of dreams will blow and s.h.i.+ne In gossamer and crystalline, And I was glad from birth.

So even while my eyes repine, My heart is clothed in mirth.

_Anna Hempstead Branch._

From "The Shoes That Danced, and Other Poems."

IT WON'T STAY BLOWED