II.

To the Light! To the Light! Let us climb to the StarThat is swinging above where the benisons are,Till we rest in the meadows where blossom aboveAll the daisies of Peace and the roses of Love!

From the dim and the dusk of the blood-sprinkled years,How the nations have toiled from the valleys of tears,—How the races have groped through the shadows of WrongTo the gladness of Joy and the music of Song!

And the Man with the Race, how he leaps from the woeOf the battle fields dead and the sorrows they know,—How he gathers his tents from the dark of the nightTill he finds a sweet home in the gardens of light!

Oh, the thousands that fell by the mountains and streamWhere the men of the past spilt their blood for a dream!How the feet, ever striving, slow stepped from the pastTill they found the sweet music of rapture at last!

To the Light! To the Light! Yonder still shines the StarThat is waiting for us where the benisons are,And there in the meadows that blossom aboveWe shall gather in peace all the roses of Love!

Some people do all they can to make others uncomfortable, and call it their religion.

The love which is so superfine that it can't find a place for its home in this world is entirely too good for a hearty welcome in the next one.

The reason why the preachers don't have larger congregations must be on account of their not wanting to call the sinners but the righteous to repentance, and there is always plenty of room.

Keep in the sunshine, brother!Walk in the golden light;The shadows are over yonder,And there is the night, the Night!Keep in the sunshine, brother!It gleams on the grayest slope,It smiles with the lips of pleasure,And laughs with the lips of hope.Keep in the sunshine, brother!It gladdens the world with light;The shadows are over yonder,And there is the night, the Night!

Keep in the sunshine, brother!Walk in the golden light;The shadows are over yonder,And there is the night, the Night!

Keep in the sunshine, brother!It gleams on the grayest slope,It smiles with the lips of pleasure,And laughs with the lips of hope.

Keep in the sunshine, brother!It gladdens the world with light;The shadows are over yonder,And there is the night, the Night!

However we may measure it, the heart of the world is always greatly bigger than its head.

Love will stir the heart into laughter when all the gold of Ophir only brings a snow-storm to life's roses.

That work is only worthy which adds something to the store of things that contribute multiplied joys to the lives of men.

God loves a mute but kindly tongue six days in the week more than a yawping mouth of prayer on the seventh day.

"What art thou, miserable creature!" shouted Pluto in a great rage as he beheld a shrinking, cowering form, hiding away in the deepest shadows.

"Pardon me, O, god of the realm of darkness," implored the miserable shade. "I am an ante-election prophecy, and am only trying to hide myself away and be forgotten forever more!"

"Poor thing, go and sin no more!" replied the king of shadows with a great pity in his voice. "Thy punishment is, indeed, deserved!" And he strode away to stir up the animals in another quarter of his dominions.

The thankfulness of some people stops in saying grace at the table before meals.

It isn't always the front seats that are occupied by His humblest children, when the collection plate gets busy.

The religion that is so brief as to last only a few hours on Sunday can be at home in a place too warm to cut ice in the great hereafter.

It's no matter what your sorrows, they will vanish sure and soonIf you'll only use your whistle on the sunshine's golden tune;And no matter what the weather nor how the troubles throng,If you practice on the music of the sunshine's happy song.

What's the use to pout and pester when the joy-bells cease to chime?Sweet the daisies fill the meadow and they blossom all the time!Keep your heart heaped up with gladness and a faith that's full and strong.And through all the ways of winter sing the blessed sunshine song!

If the mountain path is steeper than your easy fancies thought,Keep on climbing for the summits and the glories that you sought;And if winter comes and pelts you with the snows that crowd along,Lift your heart and feet together to the sunshine's golden song.

Over yonder bloom the lilies and the roses and the life;What shall matter all the brambles and the underbrush of strife?Don't you bear the angel carols rising o'er the cries of wrong?Ope your heart and fill to bursting with the sunshine's blessed song!

O, my brother, don't you worry! Up and down this world we goWhere the summer brings the blossoms and the winter brings the snow;But it's spring the wide world over as through life we push alongIf the heart is full of music and we sing the sunshine song!

In a glad smile from a clean heart there was never room for evil to find a place to plant a suggestion of wrong doing.

It may be wrong for some folks to dance, but the devil would rather have some people talk about their neighbors a minute than to dance a whole week. They can do so much better job at it.

Heave ho the anchor, laddies! The ocean rolls before;We'll climb the waves undaunted and search the far off shore;We'll breast the angry breakers that on the beaches combAnd sail, ah, sail, my hearties, for harbor-lights of home!

'Tis far the ships have drifted across the booming seas;'Tis far our sails have darkened with toils and agonies;'Tis far that youth has wandered where life's deep sorrows comeBut ho, my lads, we're sailing for harbor-lights of home!

Beyond the raging tempest, beyond the waves that roar,There waits the peaceful harbor and lights upon the shore;And when the voyage ceases, beyond the farthest foamWe'll anchor there forever 'neath habor-lights of home!

Then weigh the anchor, laddies! The ship of life shall sailOnce more to youth's glad mornings and joys that never fail;No matter how the weather, how far the course may roam,There always shines a welcome in harbor-lights of home!

Life is a great university, but it offers no post-graduate course for its pupils.

Prejudice plays the fool, when mere lack of sense would be the highest wisdom.

Too many people forsake praising God for the pleasures they have in order to pray for trouble they haven't.

However you may shape things up, there is more down fool prejudice about politics than anything else in this world except Mormonism and religion.

One of the strangest things in the economies of this world is that the poor people who need money never have it and the rich people who don't need it have more than they can use.

When the hurrah days are overAnd the ballots all are cast,There's perchance a tinge of sadness,Over glories that are past;But we have our compensations;For no matter how it flitsThere's a joy that beats unboundedWhen the campaign liar quits!While the red fire and the rocketsFill the skies with rosy glare,There's a kind of inspirationIn the shouts and music there;But we pass it up with gladnessAnd contentment on us sits,When the ballots all are countedAnd the campaign liar quits!He is trained in facts and figures,He's a prodigy, in sooth;He can tell the smoothest story,But he shies away from truth;So we gladly lose the glory,(It was never worth two bits!)When the ballots all are countedAnd the campaign liar quits!So, no matter how it ended!Whether your men lost or mine.We can shake hands all togetherO'er this recompense divine;For we have a joy that pleases,—That exalts our blessed wits;And we know when all is overThat the campaign liar quits!

While the red fire and the rocketsFill the skies with rosy glare,There's a kind of inspirationIn the shouts and music there;But we pass it up with gladnessAnd contentment on us sits,When the ballots all are countedAnd the campaign liar quits!

He is trained in facts and figures,He's a prodigy, in sooth;He can tell the smoothest story,But he shies away from truth;So we gladly lose the glory,(It was never worth two bits!)When the ballots all are countedAnd the campaign liar quits!

So, no matter how it ended!Whether your men lost or mine.We can shake hands all togetherO'er this recompense divine;For we have a joy that pleases,—That exalts our blessed wits;And we know when all is overThat the campaign liar quits!

Never pray for idle hours,—Never try to shrink;But with all your honest powersThank the Lord for work!Labor brings the pleasures highAnd the joys that thrive,—Where men laugh and where men cry,Dearest thing alive!Thank the Lord for strength to toil,—Thank him day by day,—Son of sky or son of soilOn life's vagrant way.With a soul that fearless growsAnd a good arm strong,Joyously the glad heart goesUp the world of song!

Thank the Lord for strength to toil,—Thank him day by day,—Son of sky or son of soilOn life's vagrant way.

With a soul that fearless growsAnd a good arm strong,Joyously the glad heart goesUp the world of song!

There was a young lady from BeaverWho feared that her fellow would leave her;So she popped to her beau;But he answered her "Neau"!And she called him a heartless deceiver!

Sing a song of sunshine!Life is full of bliss;'Nother over yonderJust as good as this;When the trouble's over,And the waiting long,We will sing the musicOf the sunshine song!

"Things am might loneseme erroun' de cabin now," said old Black Mose. "'Lection is ober, en de candahdates am all quit runnin' so suddenly dat nary one ob em's bin hyar fer two whole days, en de chilluns am all outen side-meat!"

Merit generally wins, but sometimes it is the doped horse in the swift race.

The fellow who starts out to do the greatest good to the greatest number, generally concludes that the greatest number is No. 1.

Amid the thunder and the crash of worlds, the chief question after all is how to get the most bread and butter with the least hard work.

Mockin' bird up yander,Singin' in de trees,Clean fohgit it's wintah,An' de time toh fieeze!Bettah hide out, Mistah,'Foh yuh stahve to def!Wintah's gwine toh git yuhFoh yub ketch yoh bref!

Though the world of care and the griefs that cryMay burden the years with a sob and sigh,Yet with one true heart and a hand that staysThere's a rose for the snows of the wintry days!

A little laughter, a little love and something of tears, and then the curtain falls on the great drama of this life.

No doubt, Adam had many bad habits, but he never walked about with hands in his pockets until after Eve started the first tailor shop.

Some men's consciences are so worthless that if put up and sold to the highest bidder, the auctioneer would have to call off the sale.

Dear Lord, for all the joyous daysThy loving hands to us have toldWe thank thee humbly, and we praiseThy wondrous mercies manifold!We thank thee for thy gifts of love,Thy blessed benisons of good,For all thy mercies born above,And every fond beatitude.For all the blessings thou hast sent,—For paths that led us far from wrong,—For holy joys and sweet content,We praise thee with our hearts of song.From thy rich treasuries aboveThy freest bounties full have comeTo swell the laughters of our loveAround the happy hearths of home.The fields have borne abundant store;The roses and the lilies whiteHave crowned the prairies and the shoreWith raptures of their love and light.The orchards bend with fruitage tall,And plenty rules from sea to sea,And at the Harvest Home we call,Dear Lord, in thankfulness to thee!Through mingled ways of shine and shadeThou hast our foot-steps guided far,And all our pilgrimages madeGlad journeys under sun and star.Our sacrifice, O Lord, we bring!Thou hast sufficed for every need;Bless thou the meager offeringOf vagrant heart, imperfect deed!And be our Keeper through the night,And through the long years of our quest,Till thou shalt welcome to delightAnd lead us in the ways of rest!

Dear Lord, for all the joyous daysThy loving hands to us have toldWe thank thee humbly, and we praiseThy wondrous mercies manifold!

We thank thee for thy gifts of love,Thy blessed benisons of good,For all thy mercies born above,And every fond beatitude.

For all the blessings thou hast sent,—For paths that led us far from wrong,—For holy joys and sweet content,We praise thee with our hearts of song.

From thy rich treasuries aboveThy freest bounties full have comeTo swell the laughters of our loveAround the happy hearths of home.

The fields have borne abundant store;The roses and the lilies whiteHave crowned the prairies and the shoreWith raptures of their love and light.

The orchards bend with fruitage tall,And plenty rules from sea to sea,And at the Harvest Home we call,Dear Lord, in thankfulness to thee!

Through mingled ways of shine and shadeThou hast our foot-steps guided far,And all our pilgrimages madeGlad journeys under sun and star.

Our sacrifice, O Lord, we bring!Thou hast sufficed for every need;Bless thou the meager offeringOf vagrant heart, imperfect deed!

And be our Keeper through the night,And through the long years of our quest,Till thou shalt welcome to delightAnd lead us in the ways of rest!

"Lawd, we am mighty thankful foh all dat we hab receibed fum thy bounteefu' han's!" prayed the reverent darkey; "en above all, we am thankful dat de sheriff nebber got erroun' to take de ole mule erway 'foh de cotton crop got tended to!"

'Long in the fall when it gits coldAn' Ma takes on the shakes,Then Ma at Pa will talk an' scold,"The kids'll freeze, my sakes!"Then Pa he ties a aprun onAn' mittens double wove,An' we kids know we'll have some funWhen Pa puts up the stove!He grabs the pipe he laid awayThere in the attic high,An' jumps aroun' jes' lively! Say,My Pa is orful spry!He dumps the soot upon the stairs,An' gits blacked like a cove,An' what he talks ain't sayin' prayersWhen Pa puts up the stove!He cuts his fingers some, an' growsAll black an' white in turn,An' that bald place his old head knowsGits red ernough to burn;An' when we laugh, he snaps his eyesNo matter where we rove,—An' say! Ma gits so mad she criesWhen Pa puts up the stove!An' Ma she jaws erround an saysHe hain't no sense, an' weHide out behind the barn a-waysTo miss the jamboree.I tell ye, fellers, they're a sight!No picnic ever throveSuch as we have of love an' lightWhen Pa puts up the stove!

He grabs the pipe he laid awayThere in the attic high,An' jumps aroun' jes' lively! Say,My Pa is orful spry!He dumps the soot upon the stairs,An' gits blacked like a cove,An' what he talks ain't sayin' prayersWhen Pa puts up the stove!

He cuts his fingers some, an' growsAll black an' white in turn,An' that bald place his old head knowsGits red ernough to burn;An' when we laugh, he snaps his eyesNo matter where we rove,—An' say! Ma gits so mad she criesWhen Pa puts up the stove!

An' Ma she jaws erround an saysHe hain't no sense, an' weHide out behind the barn a-waysTo miss the jamboree.I tell ye, fellers, they're a sight!No picnic ever throveSuch as we have of love an' lightWhen Pa puts up the stove!

"My opponents are running on various platforms," said the ambitious candidate, "but none of them promise you full relief from the evils that beset you. None of them reach down into your hearts and search out your wants and comprehend the good measures that will bring relief." And he paused for a moment, in order that the full import of his language might sink deep into the hearts of the mighty throng before him. "I favor," he continued, extending his right arm toward heaven in an impressive gesture: "I favor pensions for all the republicans, offices for all the democrats, free passes on the railroads for all the niggers, the whole earth for the socialists and the five oceans of water for the prohibitionists!"

And then the delighted crowd went wild with applause.

Away with the heroes that litter the past!Tear the crown from the brow of each unworthy pate!We have come to the truth and its virtues at last,And our heroes are modern and quite up to date!Neither warrior nor prelate is praiseworthy now;Neither saint nor philosopher cumbers our plan;Let us gather the laurels and twine o'er the browIn a crown of delight for the Meal-Ticket Man!Just search through the musty old mists of the years,For the men who have lifted the world to the stars!You will find it was never the sages or seersWho have healed human hearts from their terrible scars;They were those who from one vagrant week to the nextIn the garret or cellar lived life's little span,And whatever their thought or where ever their text,All the glory belongs to the Meal-Ticket Man.What matter though seedy his hat and his coat.That his pantaloons bagged and were ragged and frayed?Still the world by its modern, unanimous voteSays it danced to the tune that his chin-music played!At the touch of his hand, at the thrill of his thought,It leaped on the paths where the greater truths ran,And though in the ways that were humble he wroughtYet it crowns him at last—the great Meal-Ticket Man!Then hail to this hero of shadow and shine!Never doubt he's as great as the greatest in worth,And his greatness surpasses the greatness divineOf the sword and the miter that saddened the earth!From the poverty-ways where his fellows hard toilAll the blessings arise that our sorrows shall ban;He's a hero, indeed! He's the king of the soil!Then a song and a crown for the Meal-Ticket Man!

Just search through the musty old mists of the years,For the men who have lifted the world to the stars!You will find it was never the sages or seersWho have healed human hearts from their terrible scars;They were those who from one vagrant week to the nextIn the garret or cellar lived life's little span,And whatever their thought or where ever their text,All the glory belongs to the Meal-Ticket Man.

What matter though seedy his hat and his coat.That his pantaloons bagged and were ragged and frayed?Still the world by its modern, unanimous voteSays it danced to the tune that his chin-music played!At the touch of his hand, at the thrill of his thought,It leaped on the paths where the greater truths ran,And though in the ways that were humble he wroughtYet it crowns him at last—the great Meal-Ticket Man!

Then hail to this hero of shadow and shine!Never doubt he's as great as the greatest in worth,And his greatness surpasses the greatness divineOf the sword and the miter that saddened the earth!From the poverty-ways where his fellows hard toilAll the blessings arise that our sorrows shall ban;He's a hero, indeed! He's the king of the soil!Then a song and a crown for the Meal-Ticket Man!

Yaas, our Joe he run fer office:Said he'd try his hand a bit;Thet the kentry needed savin'An' he'd tinker some at it;But the 'lection now is over,An' our Joe he didn't win;But we're glad,—me an' his mother,—'Cause our Joe is home agin!Joe made quite a race fer sartin'!He's a pollytishun right,An' he's jest a bully fellerAt a foot-race er a fight;You jest ort ter hear his speeches!How they cheered with mighty din!But the 'lection now is overAn' our Joe is home agin!Spent two months a polly-tickin';Workin' every day and night;Says its harder work then thrashin';Beats rail-splittin' out o' sight!But to hear the brass-ban's playin'Nerves him up, he says, like sin;But we're glad,—me an' his mother,—'Cause our Joe's at home agin!Course we'd like our Joe elected,But it makes no diff'rence now;If the kentry needed savin'Guess she'll manage it somehow;Fer she's got to do without him,An' we're glad he didn't win;An we'll keep him,—me an' mother,—Sence our Joe's at home agin!

Joe made quite a race fer sartin'!He's a pollytishun right,An' he's jest a bully fellerAt a foot-race er a fight;You jest ort ter hear his speeches!How they cheered with mighty din!But the 'lection now is overAn' our Joe is home agin!

Spent two months a polly-tickin';Workin' every day and night;Says its harder work then thrashin';Beats rail-splittin' out o' sight!But to hear the brass-ban's playin'Nerves him up, he says, like sin;But we're glad,—me an' his mother,—'Cause our Joe's at home agin!

Course we'd like our Joe elected,But it makes no diff'rence now;If the kentry needed savin'Guess she'll manage it somehow;Fer she's got to do without him,An' we're glad he didn't win;An we'll keep him,—me an' mother,—Sence our Joe's at home agin!

Nobody has to take a dog and gun and go out to hunt trouble. It generally calls you up by 'phone and says it's coming around for lunch.

"Politics makes strange bed-fellows," no doubt; but the candidate for office seldom goes to bed, and he manages to get along on very little sleep till the returns get in.

It may be doubted whether "the Devil takes care of his own" in every way, but we'll bet our old hat that he never allows them to get hard up for fire-wood in the winter season.

As through the world we wanderThrough comforts fair and fine,Let's miss the ways of shadowAnd travel in the shine!

No matter what the weather,Just watch the danger sign;Keep off the roads of shadowAnd travel in the shine!

The paths run every which wayTo fool you, brother mine!Pass out of every shadowAnd travel in the shine!

"Dat sunshine docterin' am mighty nice to read erbout," said old Black Mose; "but when dese yer blizzahds come en de clouds hang mighty low down, en de snow goes toh sniftin' erroun' de shanty, dat's de time when I want plenty ob back logs en' a hot fiah goin' day an' night!"

"Where is Billy Spudder tonight?" inquired one of the boys the secondnight after the election as they lounged up to the bar and missed Bill's familiar presence.

"Bill? Why, Bill, you know, was a candidate for constable on the Walkover ticket and got beat so bad they couldn't count the votes," answered another. "And now Bill's at home getting acquainted with his wife again and being introduced to the new baby that appeared since he started his 60 days campaign!"

"But," argued the republican candidate for office; "the republican party freed the colored people and made them the equals of the white folks. Didn't you ever hear of Abraham Lincoln, who set your people free?"

"Dat's all mighty true, Mistah man," said the hesitating darkey; "but flouah am mighty sca'ce erroun' de cabin en we hain't had no bacon since day befoh yistiddy; en I see a dimmycrat candahdate comin' down de big road a-whuppin' ob his hosses like he hed flouah en hog-meat on behin' en bringin' it all toh me!"

Wherever your feet may wander, wherever your fancies stray,The paths that you walk are golden, for there is the sunshine way;And roses are there with their beauties that over the path-ways twine,And all of the world is a blossom that smiles in the tender shine!

There's never a murmur of evil, there's never a cry of wrong;The daisies are sweet with laughter the birds are alilt with song;The days dance by in their gladness as sweet as the sweetest wine,Where the swift feet linger in rapture through ways of the golden shine.

What matters if shadows may hover o'er blue hills far and dim?A star on the beautiful summits of the clear horizon's rim!The calls of the happy lovers whose hearts beat swift and strong,As they carol the sunshine music and whistle the sunshine song!

The pleasures greet ever the seeker that comes to their doors and woos,And life with its sun and its shadow is whatsoever we choose;And like some resplendent mirror it frowns or it smiles as weWeep with the eyes of weeping or smile with the lips of glee!

Then ever and on, my brother, through all of the golden days;Let us echo their music forever and keep in the sunshine ways!And whether we walk with the blossoms or stray where the red leaves fall,There is laughter for all of the sorrows and love for the griefs of all!

Reports indicate that nine newspaper men will be members of the next Oklahoma legislature, and even the names are mentioned. There is no kindness in giving the fact undue publicity. The poor fellows will have hard enough time to live it down, so let us treat them as charitably as the circumstances will permit.

Love and loud lips soon part company.

Accusation is fruitless. We all have our faults and are satisfied with them or we wouldn't keep them.

If people only did the best they could half of the time, they would be amply prepared for the worst the other half of the time.

Some men's dream of hell is a place where scolding women have the full run of the range and no one dares to talk back when they get busy.

Divorce may be a great evil, but every lawyer knows it is often an effective crow-bar to pry some very good people loose from hell.

Let us never worry!The flowers little careHow much of the weatherIs foul or is fair;They blossom at morning;They fade at the noon,And blooming and fadingTheir beauty dies soon.

Let us never worry!The birds freely singIn autumn's drear weatherAs blithe as in spring;They chorus their musicIn joy's happy tune,And singing and singingTheir songs vanish soon.Let us never worry!If short is the life,Whether laughing with musicOr weeping with strife;'Tis the shine of the morning,—'Tis late afternoon;Ah, the night-fall is comingAnd darkness so soon!

Let us never worry!The birds freely singIn autumn's drear weatherAs blithe as in spring;They chorus their musicIn joy's happy tune,And singing and singingTheir songs vanish soon.

Let us never worry!If short is the life,Whether laughing with musicOr weeping with strife;'Tis the shine of the morning,—'Tis late afternoon;Ah, the night-fall is comingAnd darkness so soon!

Love is the greatest thing in the world, and it carries the world's griefs on its shoulders.

If vice were as safe and inexpensive as virtue, heaven would have few candidates for admission.

I am always nervous when I meet these self-righteous people. I fear they will demand that I make the world over to fix it good enough for them, and when I fail they will blame me with all their troubles.

"Well, did you have a good time Thanksgiving, Uncle Billy?"

"Splendid, splendid! All the boys an' gals come home an' brung theyr kids along, an' me an' mother felt twenty years er more younger. An' mother an' the gals got up a spankin' dinner an' we had a plenty of raal fine enjoyment. If it hadn't a-been fer one unfortnit thing, it would a-been mighty nigh perfect."

"What was that?"

"The crusts to mother's mince-pies all soaked in the bottom, an' she couldn't eat fer grievin' over it!"

Winter's comin', fellers!Blizzards soon'll blow!Cotton all is gethered,—Money spent, ye know!Ole Thanksgivin's over,—Weather's so and so,Kids a-lookin' ChristmasEverywhayre ye go!

Keep Hope alive! Though failure comesAdown life's varied stream,Behold, joy beats her mighty drumsAnd brave men toil and dream!Keep Faith alive! Though evil straysAcross the paths you tread,Yet Goodness blesses all your ways,—The living and the dead!Keep Love alive! Though burdens pressAnd crush with anguish sore,Sweet Love shall crown with happinessThe sad heart evermore!

Keep Hope alive! Though failure comesAdown life's varied stream,Behold, joy beats her mighty drumsAnd brave men toil and dream!

Keep Faith alive! Though evil straysAcross the paths you tread,Yet Goodness blesses all your ways,—The living and the dead!

Keep Love alive! Though burdens pressAnd crush with anguish sore,Sweet Love shall crown with happinessThe sad heart evermore!

Nothing takes a man down so much as to contrast what he is with what he meant to be.

Some people are so sure they are going to miss hell in the hereafter that they proceed to make as much as possible while in this world.

We don't know what Satan's steady occupation is, but if all reports are true he must saw lots of wood in order to keep up the fires in his settlement all the year 'round.

Tune up the Christmas fiddles! There's happiness about,And willing fingers waiting to coax the music out!There's music in the valley, there's music on the plain,And music in the measures of happy sun and rain;Then fix your fiddles, fellers! The music fond and sweetIs waiting,—waiting ever,—the music of the feet!

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