It Can Be Done Part 43

_James W. Foley_.

From "Tales of the Trail."

DE SUNFLOWER AIN'T DE DAISY

"Know yourself," said the Greeks. "Be yourself," bade Marcus Aurelius.

"Give yourself," taught the Master. Though the third precept is the n.o.blest, the first and second are admirable also. The second is violated on all hands. Yet to be what nature planned us--to develop our own natural selves--is better than to copy those who are wittier or wiser or otherwise better endowed than we. Genuineness should always be preferred to imitation.

De sunflower ain't de daisy, and de melon ain't de rose; Why is dey all so crazy to be sumfin else dat grows?

Jess stick to de place yo're planted, and do de bes yo knows; Be de sunflower or de daisy, de melon or de rose.

Don't be what yo ain't, jess yo be what yo is, If yo am not what yo are den yo is not what you is, If yo're jess a little tadpole, don't yo try to be de frog; If yo are de tail, don't yo try to wag de dawg.

Pa.s.s de plate if yo can't exhawt and preach; If yo're jess a little pebble, don't yo try to be de beach; When a man is what he isn't, den he isn't what he is, An' as sure as I'm talking, he's a-gwine to get his.

_Anonymous_.

THE DAFFODILS

The poet in lonely mood came suddenly upon a host of daffodils and was thrilled by their joyous beauty. But delightful as the immediate scene was, it was by no means the best part of his experience. For long afterwards, when he least expected it, memory brought back the flowers to the eye of his spirit, filled his solitary moments with thoughts of past happiness, and took him once more (so to speak) into the free open air and the suns.h.i.+ne. Just so for us the memory of happy sights we have seen comes back again to bring us pleasure.

I wander'd lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils, Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that s.h.i.+ne And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:-- A Poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company!

I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought;

For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

_William Wordsworth._

[Ill.u.s.tration: FRANK L. STANTON]

A LITTLE THANKFUL SONG

No man is without a reason to be thankful. If he lacks grat.i.tude, the fault lies at least partly with himself.

For what are we thankful for? For this: For the breath and the sunlight of life For the love of the child, and the kiss On the lips of the mother and wife.

For roses entwining, For bud and for bloom, And hopes that are s.h.i.+ning Like stars in the gloom.

For what are we thankful for? For this: The strength and the patience of toil; For ever the dreams that are bliss-- The hope of the seed in the soil.

For souls that are whiter From day unto day; And lives that are brighter From going G.o.d's way.

For what are we thankful for? For all: The sunlight--the shadow--the song; The blossoms may wither and fall, But the world moves in music along!

For simple, sweet living, (Tis love that doth teach it) A heaven forgiving And faith that can reach it!

_Frank L. Stanton._

From "The Atlanta Const.i.tution."

TWO RAINDROPS

(A FABLE)

An egotist is not only selfish; he is usually ridiculous as well, for he sets us to wondering as to any possible ground for his exalted opinion of himself. The real workers do not emphasize their superiority to other people, do not even emphasize the differences, but are grateful that they may share in humanity's privilege of rendering service.

Two little raindrops were born in a shower, And one was so pompously proud of his power, He got in his head an extravagant notion He'd hustle right off and swallow the ocean.

A blade of gra.s.s that grew by the brook Called for a drink, but no notice he took Of such trifling things. He must hurry to be Not a mere raindrop, but the whole sea.

A stranded s.h.i.+p needed water to float, But he could not bother to help a boat.

He leaped in the sea with a puff and a blare-- And n.o.body even knew he was there!

But the other drop as along it went Found the work to do for which it was sent: It refreshed the lily that drooped its head, And bathed the gra.s.s that was almost dead.

It got under the s.h.i.+ps and helped them along, And all the while sang a cheerful song.

It worked every step of the way it went, Bringing joy to others, to itself content.

At last it came to its journey's end, And welcomed the sea as an old-time friend.

"An ocean," it said, "there could not be Except for the millions of drops like me."

_Joseph Morris,_