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The Spoi
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[lionaires—By Frederick Townsend Martin
By FREDfcRICK TOWNSEND MARTIN,
Spokesman for New Yorn’a
The Distinguished Social I.eader, and
T“>I,ATO. seeing a child do mischief In the
street, went forth and corrected its
* father. The perverted habits, activities,
characters and lives of the pampered sons of
the rich make one feel like flaying their
fathers.
Millionaires who lull their sons In the lap of
luxury and feed them the bread of Idleness,
wrong themselves, their children and society.
The unearned fortunes of these sons are their
greatest misfortunes. They rob their limbs
of muscle, their hands of brain, and their
hearts of virtue.
An Infallible way of spoiling your son is to
relieve him or ail responsibility and to satisfy
his every demand. "Passion swells by gratifi
cation. ”
This is the crime of the rich.
They place at the disposal of their young
sons more wealth than It Is possible for even
the aged and experienced to expend without
self-destruction. They satisfy every whim and
caprice of mere boyB, and say. "Hoys will be
boys," but lorget that boys will be men.
In training your son, mix firmness with gen
tleness. He "must not always have his own
wav. for if you never have headaches rebuk
ing him while he grows, you will have many
heartaches when he grows up. Early in his
childhood you may lay the foundation of in
dustry or idleness, good or evil, by the habits
to which you train him.
Teach your son right habits in his youth,
and his future life is safe. Character must
be formed In time, and in good time, which is
only another way of saying that good habits
must be formed early. Sow an act, and you
reap a habit; sow a habit, and you reap a
character; sow a character, and you reap a
destiny.
Teach your son sobriety. Make it his habit,
and intemperance will be hateful and hard.
Make prudence a halit of your young son,
and reckless profligacy will be contrary to his
character when he grows up to be a man.
Give your son the habit of sacredly regard
ing the truth, scrupulously abstaining from all
sorts of improvidence,., and he will as likely
think of rushing into an element In which he
cannot breathe, as of lying or living the life
of a spendthrift a squanderer.
As your son grows old enough to under
stand, reason with him—always reason with
him. Prove to him that man Is a bundle of
habits. Show him some man that has prac
tised a vice so long that he curses it and yet
'MOO.”
clIngR to it. Show him living proof of the fact
that our active propensities are strengthened
by the repetition of actions. This fact is so
Important and so uniformly sure in its oper
ation, and in some of its bearing so fearful,
that it. should be known by all and remem
bered by all.
And when he sees the horrible ravages of
a bad habit, its victim grovelling In the dust,
impress upon his mind the significant fact
that there was a time in the life of that being
when that habit was but an impulse—the un
checked Impulse of a child, or the childish
impulse of a man.
An impulse acted upon repeatedly becomes
a habit, for better or worse. Good Impulses
acte upon I repeated form good habits.
Bad Impulses, acted upon and repeated, de
velop bad habits. Habit is the Inevitable child
of impulse. There Is In every human life a
period of impulse, when habit is nothing, and
there is in every human life a period of habit,
when impulse is nothing.
Young persons are creatures of impulse;
old persons are creatures of habit. Almost
everything Is Impulsive with a little child, and
nothing can be called habit. Almost every
thing Is habit in the second childhood of old
age, and there is very little that can be called
impulse. Impulse is habit in the formation.
Habit is impulse fixed. Once a habit is formed.
Impulse is powerless against it.
i never knew a man that was bad, fit for
any service that was good, and nothing in
this world is so good as usefulness. Men are
of no further good than they are of use.
The idler is not. a gentleman, but a parasite,
and though ever so rich, the idler deserves to
be treated as an outcast. Teach your children
this. He is best who Is most useful to others.
He is gentlest who does the most good to
others. Let your son get the habit of study
ing usefulness, and teach him never to re
turn to idleness. Reline his soul above that
wretched state. The useful life is not only
good, but beautiful.
The false idea of greatness is that he is
greatest who succeeds In using his fellowmen
for his own ends. Make your son realize early
in life that the true idea of greatness is that
he is greatest who is most useful to others.
What a glorious privilege it is to serve others!
It binds your fellow creatures to you and you
to them. It builds up your character and
gives you the only importance that lasts and
that a man deserves to have in society.
They who provide much wealth for their
children, but neglect to improve them In vir
tue. said Socrates, do like those who feed
their horses well, but never train them to be
useful. A man who gives his children habits
of Industry, provides for them better than by
giving them a fortune.
The father who awakens In the mind of his
boy the love of goodness, and develops in him
the strength of will to repel temptation, and
who sends him out to profit by the conflicts
of life, renders the greatest service that a
father can render to his son.
The spoiled sons of millionaires show had
taste in almost everythng, because good taste
is the flower of good sense, just as bad taste
is a species of bad morals. Rousseau says that
taste is the microscope of the Judgment. When
taste is purified the morals are not easily cor
rupted. )
Good taste makes us susceptible to truth and
nobleness, gives us the sense with which to
discern, and the heart with which to love and
reverence all beauty, order snd goodness.
Take care to purify the mind of your son.
Give your son a fair start by kindling in his
mind a love of harmony that will make his
soul keen and his vision Just and generous.
Taste is not stationary, it grows every day and
is improved by cultivation, until it blossoms
into upright simplicity, the greatest of wisdom.
The world's greatest philosophers agree that
there Is good in everything, but it is only the
man with good taste than can discern, appre
ciate and utilize whatever good there Is in
things that are bad. To quote Longfellow,
"In character, in manners, in style, in all things,
the supreme excellence is simplicity.” of all
things, the hardest to copy is simplicity.
The greatest truths are the simplest, and
so are the greatest men. The most profound
thoughts can result in nothing greater than
simplicity of character.
The most agreeable of all companions Is the
simple, frank man, who understands life and
the use of it.
The most Important lesson Is to learn how
to enjoy ordinary things. Moderate desires
constitute a character fitted to acquire all the
good w'hich the world can yield. He who has
this character is prepared to draw satisfaction
out of any situation, for he has learneA the
science of being happy.
The spoiled sons of millionaires go beyond
the bounds of moderation, and everything that
exceeds the bounds of moderation has an un
stable foundation. “Tranquil pleasures last the
longest.” "They are as elck, that surfeit with
too much," says the Immortal Shakespeare, "as
they that starve with nothing.”
The pursuit of even the best things ought to
be calm and tranquil. Little streams flowing
softly freshen everything alopg their course.
_ As only action gives life strength, only modera-
* tion gives it charm.
"I knew a wise man,” said Bacon, "who had
for a by-word when he saw a man hasten to a
conclusion, ‘Stay a little, that we may come to
the end sooner.’" Moderation resembles tem
perance, and the temperate enjoy the greatest
luxuries.
It is surprising how much they enjoy who
abstain from too many things. Temperance
and labor are the two best physicians; the one
sharpens the appetite, and the other prevents
excessive Indulgence.
Do you want your son to have a vigorous
body and a pure mind? Teach him temper
ance.
Would you have his reason unclouded, and
sentiments ’fined? Teach him temperance.
Would yot nsure his health and strength,
give him command over his head, and keep his
senses clear and undeflled? Teach him tem
perance.
Would you give him a fortune that shall
cause him to envy no one? Teach him tem
perance.
To quote Addison, “Temperance gives nature
her full play and enables her to exert herself
in all her force and vigor.”
Teach your son self-reliance. He will never
learn to take care of himself unless you will
let him try to care for himself. He will make
mistakes, but out of these mistakes will come
his wisdom. As early as possible impress upon
him the power of an ideal. Teach him to
LIVE FOR SOMETHING!
A life without a purpose is like a ship with
out a rudder. An ideal will cause your boy to
grow and blossom and fructify into a man
worth while. No one who has an ideal can
be self-satisfied, overbearing, or self-centered.
A life anchored to an ideal grows onward and
upward, and keeps on growing onward and
upward, until one realizes that the sublime pur
pose of the individual life is to serve the com
mon life—HUMANITY.
Remember that children have more need of
models than of critics, for children are very
nice observers and will often perceive your
slightest defects. Whether it be for good or
evil, the education of the child Is principally
derived from its own observation of the actions,
words, voices and looks of those with whom
it lives.
Often parents wonder why the streams are
bitter, when they themselves have poisoned
the fountain. Parents who wish to train their
children in the way in which they would have
them go, themselves must go in the way in
which they would have their children go.
"When thou art contemplating some base
deed, let the presence of thy infant son act
as a check on thy headlong course of sin.”
Frederick Townsend Martin.
Photo Copyright by Marceau.
Beware of fatiguing your son by ill judged
exactness. Watch over him constantly. Re
prove him earnestly, but never in anger. Do
not bruise the heart of your child with harsh
words.
The first duty to children is to make them
happy. No other good can make up for that)
for in the man whose childhood has known
caresses and kindness there is always a
memory that a spark will eet afire with good
ness, I do not like punishments.
No one has ever succeeded in torturing a
child into duty.
If I were asked what single qualification was
necessary for one who has the care of children,
I should say "Patience”; patience with their
tempers, patience with their understandings,
patience with their progress.
The Hindu Poet Who Ha? Been Awarded the $40,000 Nobel Prize
From “The Gardener,” by Rabindranath
Tagore, translated from the original Itrn-
gali by the author, published by the
Maemillan Company, hew York.
THE TEMPLE.
W ITH days of hard travail I raised a temple.
It had no doors or windows; its walls were
thickly built with massive stones.
I forgot all else, I shunned all the world, I
gazed in rapt contemplation at the image I
had set upon the altar.
It was always night Inside, and lit by the lamps
of perfumed oil.
The ceaseless smoke of incense wound my
heart in its heavy coils.
Sleepless, I carved on the walls fantastic figures
in mazy bewildering lines- winged horses,
flowers with human faces, women with limbs
like serpents.
No passage was left anywhere through which
could enter the song of birds, the murmur of
leaves or hum of the busy village.
The only sound that echoed in its dark dome
was that of incantations which 1 chanted.
My mind became keen and still like a pointed
flame, my senses swooned In ecstasy.
I knew not how time passed till the thunder-
stone had struck the temple, and a pain
stung me through llie heart.
The lamp looked pale and ashamed; the carv
ings on the walls, like chainod dreams, stared-
meaningless in the light as they would fain
hide themselves.
1 looked at the image on the altar. I saw it
smiling and alive with the living touch of
God. The night I had imprisoned had spread
Its w ings and vanished.
THE LOVE TRYST.
W HEN I go alone at night to my love-tryst,
birds do not sing, the wind does not stir,
the houses on both sides of tbe street stand
silent.
It is my own anklets that grow loud at every
step and I am ashamed.
When I sit on my balcony and listen for his
footsteps, leaves do not rustle on the trees,
and the water is still in the river like the
sword on *he knees of a sentry fallen usleep.
It is my own heart that beats wildly—1 do not
know how to quiet it
When my love comes and sits by my side,
when ray body trembles and my eyelids droop,
the night darkens, the wind blows out the
lamp, and the clouds draw veils over the stars.
It is the jewel at my own breast that shines
and gives light. I do not know how to hide it.
THE MILK MAID.
I ASKED nothing, only stood at the edge of
the wood behind the tree.
Languor was still upon the eyes of the dawn,
and the dew in the air.
The lazy smell of the damp grass hung in the
thin mist above the earth.
Under the banyan tree you are milking the
cow with your hands, tender and fresh as
butter.
And I was standing still.
I did not say a w-ord. It w as the bird that sang
unseen from the thicket.
The mango tree was shedding its flowers upon
the village road, and the bees came humming
one by one.
On the side of the pond the gate of Shiva’s
temple was opened and the worshipper had
begun his chants.
With the vessel on your lap you were milking
the cow.
1 stood with my empty can.
I did not come near you.
The skv woke with the sound of the gong at
the temple.
The dust was raised in the road from the hoofs
of the driven cattle.
With the gurgling pitchers at their hips, women
came from the river.
Your bracelets were jingling, and foam brim
ming over the Jar.
The morning wore on and 1 did not come near
you.
IN THE MOONLIGHT.
IIANDS cling to hands and eyes linger on
eves; thus begins the record of our hearts.
It is the moonlit night of March; the sweet
smell of henna is In the air; my flute lies on
the earth neglected and your garland of
flowers is unfinished.
This love between you and me is simple as a
song.
Your veil of the saffron color makes my eyes
drunk.
The jasmine wreath that you wove me thrills
to my heart like praise.
It Is a game of giving and withholding, reveal
ing and screening again; some smiles and
some little shyness, and some swee,t useless
struggles.
This love between you and me is simple as a
song.
No mystery beyond the present; no striving
for the impossible; no shadow behind the
charm; no groping in the depth of the dark.
This love between you and me is simple as a
song.
We do not stray out of all words Into the ever
silent; we do not raise our hands to the void
for things beyond hope.
It Is enough what we give and we get.
We have not crushed the joy to the utmost to
wring from it the wine, of pain.
This love between you and mo is simple as a
song.
T HE world has
been surprised
to hear that
fhe annual Nobel prize
for literature valued
at .$40,000 and regard
ed as the highest
European honor of its
kind has been award
ed to Mr. Rabin
dranath Tagore, a Hin
du. The Nobel litera
ture prize once went
to Rudyard Kipling
and the peace prize to
Theodore Roosevelt.
It has never before
been awarded to any
hut a white man.
Rabindranath Tagore and His
Signature in Bengali.
Mr. Tagcre is a na
tive of Bengal, and
comes of a wealthy
Hindu family. He has
devoted his life entire
ly to poetry and con
templation. His poems
are said by good au
thorities to show a
poetic feeling, spirit
ual insight and beauty
of language that have
never been surpassed.
One volume of his
poems entitled “The
Gardener” was re
cently published by
the Macmillan Com
pany and another
will shortly appear.
I paint you and fashion you ever with my love
longings.
You are my own, my own, Dweller in my end
less dreams!
Your feet are rosy-red with the glow of my
heart’s desire. Gleaner of my sunset songs!
Your lips are bitter-sweet with the taste of
,my wine of pain.
You are my own, my own, Dweller in my lone
some dreams!
With the shadow of my passion have I dark
ened your eyes, Haunter of the depth of my
gaze!
I have caught you and wrapt you, my love, In
the net of my music.
You are my own, my own, Dweller in my
deathless dreams!
HER SKIRT.
W HEN she passed by me with quick steps,
the end of her skirt touched me.
From the unknown island of a heart came a
sudden warm breath of Spring.
A flutter of a flitting touch brushed me and
vanished in a moment, like a torn flower
petal blown In ihe breeze,
it fell upon my heart like a sigh of her body
and whispered of her heart. *
DREAMS.
T HEN finish the last song and let us leave
Forget this night when the night is no
more.
Whom do I try to clasp In my arms? Dreams
can never be made captive.
My eager hands press emptiness to my heart
and It bruises my breast.
I SHALL NEVER BE AN ASCETIC.
N O. my friends, I shall never be an ascetic,
whatever you may say.
I shall never be an ascetic if she does not
take the vow with me.
It is ray firm resolve that if I cannot find a
shady shelter and a companion for my pen
ance, 1 shall never turn ascetic.
No, my friends, I shall never leave my hearth
and home, and retire into the forest soli
tude, if rings no merry laughter in its echo
ing shade and if the end of no saffron man
tle flutters in the wind: if its silence is not
deepened by soft whispers.
I shall never be an ascetic.
THE FORGOTTEN LOVE.
IN the dusky path of a dream I went to seek
1 the love who was mino in a former life.
Her house stood at the end of a desolate street.
In the evening breeze her pet peacock sat
drowsing on its perch, and the pigeons were
silent in their corner.
She set her lamp down by the portal and stood
before me.
She raised her large eyes to my face and mute-
,ly asked, “Are you well, my friend?”
I tried to answer, but our language had been
' lost and forgotten.
I thought and thought; our names would not
come to my mind.
Tears shone in her eyes. She held up her right
hand to me. 1 took it and stood silent.
Our lamp had flickered in the evening breeze
and died.
Y
MY HEART’S DESIRE.
OU are the evening cloud floating In the
sky of my dreams.
0
WOMAN.
WOMAN, you are not merely the handiwork
of God, but also of man; these are ever-
endowing you with beauty from their hearts.
Poets are weaving for you a web with threads
of golden imagery; painters are giving your
form ever new immortality.
The sea pives its pearls, the mines their gold,
the Summer gardens their flowers to deck
you, to cover you, to make you more precious.
The desire of men’s hearts has shed its glory
over your youth.
You are one half woman and one half dream.
THE BRIDE AND DEATH.
M7E are to play the game of death to-night,
” my bride and I.
The night is black, the clouds In the sky are
capricious, and the waves are raring at sea.
We have left our bed of dreams, flung open the
door and come out, my bride and I.
We sit upon a swing, and the storm winds give
us a wild push from behind.
My bride starts up with fear and delight, she
trembles and clings to my breast.
Long have I served her tenderly.
I made for her a bed of flowers and I closed tbe
doors to shut out the rude light from her
eyes.
I kissed her gently on her lips and whispered
softly in her ears till she half swooned in
languor.
She was lost in the endless mist of vague
sweetness.
She answered not to my touch, my songs failed
to arouse her.
To-night has come to us the call of the storm
from the wild.
My bride has shivered and stood up, she has
clasped my hand and come out.
Her hair is flying in the wind, her veil is flut
tering, her garland rustles over her breast
The push of death has swung her into life.
We are face to face and heart to heart, my
bride and I.
Mr. Chesterton’s Analysis of a “Crank”
By GILBERT K. CHESTERTON
(The Brilliant English Satarlst.)
I HAVE spent much of my Ufa in studying
tbe habits of the ernnk; in humble imita
tion of Thackeray when he studied the
habits of the snob. By this time I believe I
have an eye for a crank. And, before going
any further, let me hasten to explain that a
sincere and simple enthusiast is not a crunk,
however wild he may oe, or however wrong he
mav he. Don Quixote was not a crank. Plim-
s'-t’ was not a crank. M-. George I ansbury is
not a crank. If you saul those men were slm-
j ly mistaken. I should 8*111 retort that at least
they were mistaken simply. But ihe crank is
never simple. He could no more make a plain
mistake than he could see a plain fact. I have
never satisfied myself with any definition of
him; but you all know him.
Sometimes 1 • thought he might be de
fined tl us: that be always talks on hi# one
topic; and yet it is not ills topic that tires
us. but himself. Thus, he is often a vege
tarian; but he cannot open his mouth with
out giving us the impression that vege
tables have disagreed with him. The hippo-
popotamus is also a vegetarian; but the
hippopotamus cannot open ills mouth without
gtviug pleasure to old and young. Hazlitt said
that when he was in the country he liked to
vegetate like the country. That, again I have
sometimes thought, might make the founda
tion of tlie definition of a crank. He is a vege
tarian; he cannot rise so high as to be a vege
table. He carries into the country that very
spirit of vigilance and punctilio which is the
inmost and most ^vil spirit of the town.
Take another instance outside that of diet,
vegetarian or other Many cranks do not like
boots. I do not like them myself. Tbe sim
plest thing to do, if you do not like boots, is to
take them off. In Scotland the children of all
classes up to that of a colonel or a county
magistrate habitually go about with bare Jeet.
except on Sundays. But the Scotch, being a
democratic people, are a sensible people; for
there Is no world that makes war on faddists
as a democracy makes war on them. And while
you will find very many middle-class children
in Fife or the Lothlans with ’bare feet, I think
you will find very few middle-class children
In sandals.
The advantage of boots Is that they keep
your feet dry; and sandals don’t. The
disadvantage of boots is that they are a
bother to put on; and so are sandals. That is
another possible definition of the crank. He is
the man who always manages (by an eternal
crisis of self-consciousness) to combine all the
disadvantages of everything. Another way in
which I tried to define the crank was that he
always begins at the wrong end. He never
s knows the right way to take hold of anything,
as one takes hold of a cat by the scruff of the
neck.
He always tries to catch his cat by the
tall; especially if It is a Manx eat. The thing
he begins with is always the thing that is last.
Thus, if he ts talking about the ancient and
awful bond between man and woman, he will
talk about votes before he talks about vows.
Thus, if he is talking about children, he will
be genuinely Interested in the children’s
schools; It will never so much as cross his
mind that children, as a class, generally belong
to families. If he is interested in Shakespeare,
he will not lie Interested in Shakespeare a
poetry ; he will be interested in the extraordi
nary question of who wrote it. If he is inter
ested in one of the Gospels or in one of the
Epistles, he will not be interested in what is
written there; he will be interested in some
bottomless bosh abouN when it was written,
it was when I had got thus far in my specula
tions that I began to suspect that I had found
the definition of a cra^nk after all.
The true and horrid secret of me crark is
this: that he is not interested in his subject.
He is only interested in his object. He wants
to do something, to alter something, to feel
he has made a difference, to rediscover his own
miserable existence. He does not care for
women, but for Votes for Women; he does not
care for children, hut for education; he does
not care for animals, but for anti-vivisection;
he does not care for Nature, but for "open
spaces.”
He does not care for anything unless he
can do something to it. Leave him for three
minutes alone with a qpw or a canary, and he
has not enough energy to live the life of con
templation. He can never enjoy a discussion
because he can never enjoy a doubt. He is
unfit for all the arts and sciences and philos-
phies, which require a powerful patience or
a noble indifference. He is unfit to be an
agnostic. "He is unfit to be an angler. I am not
sure he might not shoot someone, out of sheer
ennui, if he were a sentry. Milton had in him,
in so far as so great a man could have, a slight
streak of the crank. And it was this that he
rebuked in himself and in all his brother cranks
in that phrase, that "they also serve who only
stand and wait.” That is another trade from
which the real genuine crank is cut off. He
can never really be a waiter.
Again, the crank is never really interested in
tv's subject, because he takes too stiff and
biased a view of it. He knows nothing of the
romantic hesitations, the rich reactions that
there are in a really interesting subject. He
cannot love and hate a thing at the same time;
which is the root of half the poetry of the
world.
For instance, I should firmly claim that I
am interested In Jews. I have not, indeed, the
faintest serious dislike of them; nor can I be
said to be on their side. But they attract me,
they puzzle me; I find myself forever fitting
theories to them; I think they are a human
triumph, a national danger, an Intellectual
Inspiration, and a frightful nuisance. But the
people who publish little pamphlets about the
persecution of Jews In Russia are not interested
in Jews at all. They are interested In certain
imaginary good old men with patriarchal beards
and ragged gaberdines who are made to wander
about in the snow because they never did
anyone any harm. All the interesting part of
the Jewish problem, good as well as bad, is
simply left out.
Or again, the people who go In for regu
lating or reforming public houses are not in
terested in public houses in the least. They
know very little of their tragic side, and
nothing at all of their comic side. They want
to alter sometning and to feel bright and bust
ling. That is what they mean when they say
that their eyes are fixed on the future. They
never by any chance look at what they are
doing.
I saw that a Baconian the other day, writing
about one of Shakespeare’s mixed metaphors.
Justified it; and then added solemnly: "He
never erred.” Now, I assert emphatically that
anyone who says that Shakespeare never erred
must be utterly indifferent to Shakespeare, al
together Indifferent—hopelessly Indifferent, in
deed. The remark is so utterly inappropriate
to the whole atmosphere, the whole Impersonal
personality of the poet, that It might be taken
as the type of that idolatrous solemnity which
markedly separates the crank from the critic.
THE FREE AND THE CAGED BIRD.
'FHE tame bird was In a cage, the free bird
* was in the forest.
They met when the time came, it was a decree
of fate.
The free bird cries, “O my love, let us fly to
wood.”
The cage bird whlspst«, “Come hither, let us
both live in the cag ’
Says the free bird, "Ai^jiig bars, where Is there
room to spread one > w-lngs?”
“Alas!” cries the cage lrd, “I should not know
where to sit perche in the sky.”
The free bird cries, “l.r darling, sing the Songs
of the woodlands."
The cage bird says, "S $y my side, I’ll teach
you the speech of the reamed.”
The forest bird cries, “No, ah, no! Songs ,can
never be taught”
The cage bird says, “Alas for me! I know not
the songs of the woodlands."
Their love Is Intense with longing, but they
never can fly wing to wing.
Through the bars of the cage they look, and
vain is their wish to know each other.
They flutter their wings in yearning and sing,
‘‘Come closer, my love!” .
The free bird cries, “It cannot be, I fear the
closed doors of the cage.”
The cage bird whispers, "Alas! my wdngs are
powerless and dead."
AUTUMN.
/\VER the green and yellow rice-flelds sweep
the shadows of the Autunfn clouds fol
lowed by the swift-chasing sun.
The bees forget to sip their honey; drunken
with light they foolishly hover and hum.
The ducks in the islands of the river clamor
in joy for mere nothing.
Let none go back home, brothers, this morn
ing; let none go to work.
Let us take the blue sky by storm and plunder
space as we run.
Laughter floats in the air like foam on the
flood.
Brothers, let us squander our morning in fu
tile songs.