It Can Be Done Part 7

_Oliver Wendell Holmes._

PIPPA'S SONG

This little song vibrates with an optimism that embraces the whole universe. A frequent error in quoting it is the subst.i.tution of the word _well_ for _right_. Browning is no such shallow optimist as to believe that all is well with the world, but he does maintain that things are right with the world, for in spite of its present evils it is slowly working its way toward perfection, and in the great scheme of things it may make these evils themselves an instrument to move it toward its ultimate goal.

The year's at the spring And day's at the morn; Morning's at seven; The hillside's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn; G.o.d's in his heaven-- All's right with the world.

_Robert Browning._

OWNERs.h.i.+P

The true value of anything lies, not in the object itself or in its legal possession, but in our att.i.tude to it. We may own a thing in fee simple, yet derive from it nothing but vexation. For those who have little, as indeed for those who have much, there are no surer means of happiness than enjoying that which they do not possess. Emerson shows us that two harvests may be gathered from every field--a material one by the man who raised the crop, and an esthetic or spiritual one by whosoever can see beauty or thrill with an inner satisfaction.

They ride in Packards, those swell guys, While I can't half afford a Ford; Choice fillets fill a void for them, We've cheese and prunes the place I board; They've smirking servants hanging round, You'd guess by whom my shoes are s.h.i.+ned.

But all the same I'm rich as they, For owners.h.i.+p's a state of mind.

_They_ own, you say? Pshaw, they possess!

And what a fellow has, has him!

The rich can't stop and just enjoy Their lawns and shrubs and house-fronts trim.

They're tied indoors and foot the bills; I stroll or stray, as I'm inclined-- Possession was not meant for use, But owners.h.i.+p's a state of mind.

The folks who have must try to keep Against the thieves who swarm and steal; They dare not stride, they mince along-- Their pavement's a banana peel.

Who owns, the jeweler or I, Yon gems by window-bars confined?

Possession lies in locks and keys; True owners.h.i.+p's a state of mind.

I own my office (I've a boss, But so have all men--so has he); The business is not mine, but yet I own the whole blamed company; Stockholders are less proud than I When compet.i.tion's auld lang syned.

What care I that the profit's theirs?

I have what counts--an owner's mind.

The pretty girls I meet are mine (I do not choose to tell them so); I own the flowers, the trees, the birds; I own the suns.h.i.+ne and the snow; I own the block, I own the town-- The smiles, the songs of humankind.

For owners.h.i.+p is how you feel; It's just a healthy state of mind.

_St. Clair Adams._

A SMILING PARADOX

Good nature or ill is like the loaves and fishes. The more we give away, the more we have.

I've squandered smiles to-day, And, strange to say, Altho' my frowns with care I've stowed away, To-night I'm poorer far in frowns than at the start; While in my heart, Wherein my treasures best I store, I find my smiles increased by several score.

_John Kendrick Bangs._

From "Songs of Cheer."

THE NEW DUCKLING

There are people who, without having anything exceptional in their natures or purposes or visions, yet try to be different for the sake of being different. They are not content to be what they are; they wish to be "utterly other." Of course they are hollow, artificial, insincere; moreover they are nuisances. Their very foundations are wrong ones. Be _yourself_ unless you're a fool; in that case, of course, try to be somebody else.

"I want to be new," said the duckling.

"O ho!" said the wise old owl, While the guinea-hen cluttered off chuckling To tell all the rest of the fowl.

"I should like a more elegant figure,"

That child of a duck went on.

"I should like to grow bigger and bigger, Until I could swallow a swan.

"I _won't_ be the bond slave of habit, I _won't_ have these webs on my toes.

I want to run round like a rabbit, A rabbit as red as a rose.

"I _don't_ want to waddle like mother, Or quack like my silly old dad.

I want to be utterly other, And _frightfully_ modern and mad."

"Do you know," said the turkey, "you're quacking!

There's a fox creeping up thro' the rye; And, if you're not utterly lacking, You'll make for that duck-pond. Good-bye!"

But the duckling was perky as perky.

"Take care of your stuffing!" he called.

(This was horribly rude to a turkey!) "But you aren't a real turkey," he bawled.

"You're an Early-Victorian Sparrow!

A fox is more fun than a sheep!

I shall show that _my_ mind is not narrow And give him my feathers--to keep."

Now the curious end of this fable, So far as the rest ascertained, Though they searched from the barn to the stable, Was that _only his feathers remained._

So he _wasn't_ the bond slave of habit, And he _didn't_ have webs on his toes; And _perhaps_ he runs round like a rabbit, A rabbit as red as a rose.