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A PAGE OP POETRY
Don 7 Worry So.
Don’t flurry so. Just wait, keep cool!
To get the work all done;
Before the world comes to an end
Just take some time for fun.
What’s all our living worth, unless
We’ve time enough for happiness*?
«
Don’t flurry so. Just wait, keep cool!
Your plans are all upset?
Ah, well, the world whirls on by rule,
And things will straighten yet.
Your flurry and your fret and fuss
Just make things hard for all of us.
Don’t worry so. It’s sad, of course,
But you and I and all,
Must with the better take the worse,
And jump up when we fall.
Oh, never mind what’s going to be,
Today’s enough for you and me!
—McCall’s.
A Week With the Citizen.
(From the New York Sun).
On Monday he will tremble
And hide all cash in reach;
It is the day that’s slated
For Taft to make his speech.
On Tuesday he will shiver,
His knees knock as he walks;
The calendar reveals it
The day that Roosevelt talks.
On Wednesday he will wander
Indignant on his way,
For then with dainty joking
Will Bonaparte be gay.
On Thursday he will weary
Os hopes to hold the fort;
All peace of mind assailing
Knox-Smith will make report.
On Friday he will bury
His silver if he can
And hark in consternation
While Purdy springs a plan.
On Saturday he gazes
At credit put to rout,
And listens in amazement
While Garfield starts to spout.
On Sunday he will reckon
The remnant of his pelf
And angels will be weeping
At what he says himself.
»e •?
Words and Smiles.
How little it costs if we give it a thought,
As we journey from day to day,
Just one kind word or a tender smile,
As we go on our busy way;
Perchance a look will suflice to clear
The cloud from a neighbor’s face,
And the press of a hand in sympathy
A sorrowful tear efface.
One walks in sunlight; another goes
All weary in the shade;
One treads a path that is fair and smooth,
Another must pray for aid.
It costs so little! I wonder why
We give it so little thought;
A smile—kind words —a glance —a touch
What magic with them is wrought!
—Anon.
—Anon
The Golden Age for August 29, 190?.
I "Bide My Time.
By Lila Wheeler Wilcox.
I bide my time. Whenever shadows darken
Along my path, I do but lift mine eyes,
And faith reveals fair shores beyond the skies;
And through earth’s harsh, discordant sounds I
hearken,
And hear divinest music from afar,
Sweet sounds from lands where half my loved
ones are.
I bide —I bide ray time.
I bide my time. Whatever woes assail me,
I know the strife is only for a day;
A Friend waits for me further on the way-
A Friend too faithful and too true to fail me,
Who will bid ail life’s jarring turmoil cease,
And lead me on to realms of perfect peace.
£ bide —I bide my time.
I
I bide my time. This conflict and resistance,
This drop of rapture in a cup of pain,
This wear and tear of body and of brain
But fits my spirit for the new existence
Which waits me in the happy by-and-by.
So, come what may, I’ll lift my eyes and cry:
“I bide —I bide my time ”
—Christian World.
He Knolvs.
So on I go, not knowing;
I would not if I might,
I would rather walk in the dark with God
Than go alone in the light.
I would rather walk with Him by faith,
Than walk alone by sight.
My heart shrinks back from trials,
Which the future may disclose;
Yet I never had a sorrow,
But what the dear Lord chose;
So I’ll send the coming tears back
With the whispered word, ‘‘He knows.”
—Selected.
The Sin of Omission.
It isn’t the thing you do, dear;
It’s the thing you’ve left undone,
Which gives you a bit of heartache
At the setting of the sun.
The lender word forgotten,
The letter you did not write,
The flowers you might have sent, dear,
Are your haunting ghosts tonight.
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For life is all too short, dear,
And sorrow is all too great,
To suffer our slow compassion
That tarries until too late.
And it’s not ihe thing you do, dear,
It’s the thing you leave undone,
Which gives you the bit of "eartache
zVt setting of the sun.
These little acts of kindness,
So easily out of mind,
These chances to be angels
Which even mortals find—
They come in night and silence,
Each chill, reproachful wraith,
When hope is faint and flagging,
And a blight has dropped on faith.
For life is all too short, dear,
And sorrow is all too great,
To suffer our slow compassion
That tarries until too late;
And it’s not the thing you do, dear,
It’s the thing you leave undone,
Which gives you the bitter heart
At the setting of the sun.
A Life's Lobe.
I loved him in ray dawning years —
For years, divinely dim;
My blithest smiles, my saddest tears
Were evermore for him.
My dreaming when the day began,
The latest thought I had,
Was still some little loving plan
To make my darling glad.
They deemed he lacked the conquering wiles
That other children wear;
To me his face, m frowns or smiles,
Was never aught but fair.
They saia that self was all his goal,
lie knew no thought beyond;
To me I know no living soul
Was half so true and fond.
In love’s eclipse, in friendship’s dearth,
In grief and feud and vale,
My heart has learned the sacred worth
Os one that can not fail;
And come what must and come what may,
Nor power, nor praise, nor pelf
Shall lure my faith from thee to stray,
My sweet, my own —Myself.
—Anonymous.
The Way He Used to Do.
(The New York Times).
Sometimes when I ccme in at night
And take my shoes off at the stair,
I hear my pop turn on the light
And holler: “William, are you there?”
And then he says: “You go to bed—
I knew that stealthy step was you.”
And I asked how, and then he said:
“ ’Cause that’s the way I used to do.”
Sometimes when I come home at six
O’clock, and hurry up my chores,
And get a big armful of sticks
Os wood and bring it all indoors,
My pop he comes and feels my head
And says: “You’ve been in swimmin’ —you!”
When I asked how he knew, he said:
“ ’Cause that’s the way I used to do.”
Sometimes before a circus comes,
When I’m as willing as can be
To do my chores, and all my chums
They all take turns at helping me,
My pop he pats ’em on the head
And says: “You like a circus, too?”
When I asked him how he knew, he said:
“ ’Cause that’s the way I used to do.”
And lots of times when he gets mad
Enough to whip me, and declares
He never saw another lad
Like I am —well, at last he spares
Me from a whipping and he lays
His rawhide down: “I can’t whip you
For that, although I should,” he says,
“ ’Cause that’s the way I used to do.”
Grandpa to His Little Grand Daughter.
An aristocrat born, Heaven’s handiwork glows,
From the tips of her ears to the tips of her toes.
Dainty, exquisite, delicious, divine,
These, Baby dear, are thin'' adjectives, thine;
Thy spirit’s bright essence, how poor t’ express;
A Dream from lost Eden our toil to bless;
A Rose-bud dropped from Amaranthine plain;
An Echo wafted from Heaven’s refrain;
0 ’er the gloomiest of work-days a Radiance thrown;
Our “little child leading” our Song from God’s
throne.
