How her dear heart did ache when the death angel trod
And took back her boy to his maker and God;
No sorrow nor pain nor heart aches nor tears
Are ever more known where he takes these small dears.
There is something so sad in the valley of death,
When the heart stops its beat and there’s no longer breath!
That angels must come to ease up the pain,
And open the soul to let the tears drain.
How long are the years and how many it takes
Before there is peace from the burning heart aches!
The home is so lonely so silent and still
There is something gone out that nothing can fill.
His little things stand where he left them one day,
The little toy dog all ready for play,
The big choo choo train and the horse he called Bill,
All wait for the hand that is silent and still.
Few people care to listen to your sorrows, trials and burdens if you are not succeeding. If you succeed, everybody is grabbing for the stock no matter how well filled with water it is. They point with pride at the successful man as he saunters by; he can do a great many things that are shady, but on account of his success and prominence they are hushed up and never rise above a whisper; he’s dined and wined; gets cut prices on everything he consumes; rebates from the railroads and special privileges in the churches. But take the poor fellow that each day’s debts eats up his pay roll and we never hear of his fine qualities until we read his obituary.
If you will take a few leisure moments and look up the meaning of the word “gratitude,” you will find that there are few words thatsurpass it in quality, love and kindness. It clusters near the soul and is properly a virtue. In this life it is very hard to be misunderstood and undervalued by those we love, but this too in the journey from the cradle to the grave we must learn to bear without a murmur, for it’s a tale often repeated.
Any one who has given their time, talent and attention serving the dear people, either as a Town Trustee, member of the School Board, Mayor, or any of the petty offices of small towns and villages, used his best judgment in endeavoring to meet every issue honestly, fairly and squarely, wins for his gratuitous services the everlasting displeasure of his constituents.
No matter how hard you strive or how honest you may be there come up little intricate issueswhere there is no middle course and no matter what stand you take some people charge you with graft and dishonest motives. Any one who can serve for one term and is so unfortunate and foolish as to accept another, has acquired a character so colored that it takes from ten to fifteen years in our best Sunday Schools to wash out the stains.
Don’t ever feel elated or think you are popular because you are elected and people call you alderman, for the first thing they will do will be to slip out that pleasant, sweet sounding word “Alderman” and put in “Grafter” with the thumbscrews set. They’d call you a grafter if they personally know the treasury had been depleted for fifteen years. My, the pleasures of a gratis councilman!
I have heard of people losing their mindsfor long intervals and then suddenly regain them and I have often wondered if they had been favored with an aldermanic pleasure and the mind commenced to slip into space, I wonder if when the cog alderman appeared if it wouldn’t cause such a jolt that it would clear the whole mental atmosphere. Perhaps there is one redeeming feature and if it wasn’t for some consolation the pictures and scenes would be so indelibly impressed that you would be able to recall them long after you’d said “Amen.”
The spirit of revenge and retaliation were never very deeply imbedded in my make up. The seed being lightly sown I used the harrow instead of the cultivator and got it out. I am glad I did; it has helped me to get a good night’s rest instead of fondling and caressing discolored orbs that might have comein sudden contact with solid and knotty obstacles.
I bought a small business one time from a devout Presbyterian; I had the greatest confidence and trust in him, which I had a sad right to have. If false colors are carried we must find it out because they carry no notice to warn us. Well, anyway, he spread the tempting menu of his careful preparation in great shape. He was pleasant, courteous and very entertaining. The way he figured up the invoice you’d thought mathematics was his specialty. His tongue kept pace with his pencil and after everything was figured up he brought up the “Bonus Good Will” part and I really thought he was letting me do him a favor by giving him one hundred iron men. You see I wanted his good will along with everybody else’s.
I am glad I learned about this “Good Will” business. All told “Good Will” and “Bonuses” have cost me nine hundred and thirty-three dollars thirty-three and a third cents. Don’t try to fool me on “Good Wills” again; they’re a drug on the market, very unsaleable and unpopular to your humble servant.
After I paid the “Good Will” price and everything was agreeably settled I started in with my maiden business. Going through the bags and some other stuff in the back room a few days afterwards, I discovered bags invoiced and paid for at one hundred pounds shy. “Shy,” I said, and he a Christian! This taught me that there are eighty and ninety pound Christians. The loud smelling, decaying and life moving gunny sacks contained prepared meats for poultry. I quit in disgust and went into the front department;a fellow stepped in and said, “How is business?” and I answered “Rotten.” A frank acknowledgment of a painful truth.
Other things ran about the same; the horses were sold as unblemished, sound as a dollar, etc., and mind you, he a Christian and ministers dropping in every few days and talking and planning how to increase the congregation. My, I’m glad I used that harrow! When I sold out the business, I marked down experiences one thousand dollars. I felt pretty blue after I had lost the thousand bones I worked hard to get, and it used to be when I got the blues I eased my mind with graveyard poetry; pardon me for inserting it here.
If I should die tonight how few would care;
Perhaps some heart would ache, some one somewhere,
Some might cast a lingering look, a tear
And tremble with emotion at my bier,
But before many days would pass away,
Before my silent form would turn to clay,
I’d be forgotten and alone,
And not a heart to ache or moan.
Oh! this bitter, lonely life’s a snare,
The kind friends you hear so much about are rare.
Some may mean it in their hearts but feign
And measure men by dollars not by brain.
A friend came to me one time and said he was in pressing financial straits and asked me to loan him fifteen dollars for two weeks. I granted the request and the loan was made. I thought I was familiar with the calendar and knew when two ordinary weeks ended, but those two weeks were the longest I haveever known. Fortnight after fortnight passed and no end came. Long and endless weeks of this kind might be all right for the man facing the electric chair, but they had no solace for an individual anxious to get married and needing the husky “Simoleans” to furnish a cage for his waiting bird.
One day I met the overdue biped and I said, “How about it?” I was young then and I thought I could glide in as easy this way as well as any phrase I had in my limited vocabulary. “Well,” he said, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I know you are about to plunge in the matrimonial sea and I have a proposition to offer you. I have a good standard make of organ that I don’t need and if you will give me forty-five dollars and forget about that previous fifteen we will call the transaction closed and drop the curtain.”
“All right,” I said, “here is your money.”
That organ may not be in existence yet, but it’s in my memory fresh as ever. I couldn’t play it, for it was all I could do to carry a tune when it was tied in a bag. I had no wife to play it and I couldn’t keep it and get married, I was in a desperate condition one day when I walked into a hardware store, that is a store, you know, where they keep ware that is hard, frying pans, dish pans, bread pans, etc., you know what those things are for. “Well,” I said to the village wit behind the case, “I’ll trade you that organ for enough household paraphernalia to cook with, take care of enough viands and stuff or whatever you call it, to keep two people about to start out together; each now separate and apart but very anxious to be united.” “Agreed,” he said, “hand over that listyou’ve got with the articles on and I’ll have them ready in a short time.”
Funny, isn’t it, how the wind is tempered to the shorn lamb, but how about the one ready to be shorn when there isn’t even a zephyr blowing. Well, the deal was transacted, exchange made, and that is how I got my household goods when I married dearie. The financial report read like this: Actual cash in organ, sixty dollars; actual worth, forty-five dollars; second actual value in organ, forty-five dollars; actual value of pots and pans twenty-five dollars, experience and pleasure of making a two weeks’ loan, thirty-five dollars. This was not putting a premium on “Bliss” for a fellow just getting ready to carry the matrimonial load.
The weight would have been some lighter if that weasened faced Dutchman had notworked off on me a left handed frying pan for a right-handed bride, and was so extremely liberal on the good deal he had made that he threw in a second hand mouse trap when the new ones sold six for a dime. This was the first time I saw tears in my wife’s eyes. The fountain was opened and they flowed freely. Those tears were trivial to the tears we’ve in shed later life, but those first tears moved me to almost unconsolable grief and the emotion caused a flow of poetry. It’s not very long and will not tire you much, so I will slip it in here as a filler.
Cheer up, little darling,
You know my love is true,
And nowhere in this great big world
Is a sweeter girl than you.
I have loved you always
Trust me fully, dear,
Let me be your shining star
I’ll sparkle when you’re near.
And all along our pathway
We’ll never pluck a thorn,
But will pluck the roses
In life’s dewy morn,
Roses are more fragrant,
They’ll give us better cheer
And the thorns we’ll cast aside,
They are worthless, dear.
When I was a County Clerk and exceedingly busy pushing the quill over the big records, a M. E. Minister came in one day and accosted me with that word that arouses confidence. Brother, he said, we are figuring on a short order annex to the church, (remember that word SHORT?) and we, of course,couldn’t slight you and if you will kindly donate as liberally as possible the Lord will bless you abundantly, for you know he loves a cheerful giver, and etc., and etc. Well, I responded. When you get your subscription list in these parts drop in and I will help you.
I know what an annex to some of the churches without or with cook stove means. It seems nowadays, as the prophecies are being filled, some churches deem it necessary to feed the stomach before the soul, realizing, I presume, a full stomach is a twin brother to a big heart. They beg the food and the utensils to serve it in from uncheerful givers and then dispense it cautiously and sparingly, the more sparingly the more money for the Lord. When the ice cream is served they forget all about scriptural measure of “Heaped up and running over” and run it under. If one dishof scriptural measure can be stretched into four dishes of worldly measure, there is forty cents instead of ten. High finance, you see! I’ve often thought a society of this kind that would squeeze down the measure on ice cream procured at a minimum cost, would bear watching if they were running a milk wagon with a pump near. If any one else gets money in this way they call it an unearned increment. What would Jesus call it? I really would be afraid to express my thoughts at that kind of a meeting for fear they’d request the parcel post.
In a few days the brother dropped in and hoisted from his inside pocket the subscription list and handed it to me. I glanced over it casually, as is natural in such cases made and provided, to see who were the cheerful givers. After concluding what I thought wasa liberal donation and really beyond what a man of my means should give I put down forty dollars and handed the paper back to him. The ungentlemanly gentleman took it and looked at it and said, “Well, we expected much better than this from you.” You know what feelings ebb and flow within you when you get a snub like this. I could feel the Irish blood chasing the English blood at a hazardous speed, but I said nothing and was glad again of the early use of that harrow.
The Dog.
Of all the beasts beneath the sun
There is no other, not a one,
That clings to man in sweet and bitter
As faithful as the canine critter.
When fortune smiles upon its crest
And all your toil is richly blest
The loyal dog is near at hand
For slightest duty or command.
When poverty comes stalking in
And you have lost your precious tin,
The good old dog is just the same
In dire distress or glittering fame.
In tattered rags or spick and span
He has a truer heart than man,
And when you meet most keen defeat
His sympathy is there to greet.
When you are old and had your day,
With feeble limbs and head of gray,
And angels come to take you home,
The good old dog is last to roam.
He’ll watch beneath the stars at night
Beside your grave a sadful sight,
And wait and wait for many a day,
When faded flowers have blown away.
A dog’s great love is most sublime,
It lingers near the word divine,
And intertwines from him above,
For dog turned around is God and love.
The Booze.
Oh the ones who drink the booze,
You can tell it by their flues,
The torrid heat within flames up the nose.
At first they’re moderate drinkers,
And become the same as thinkers,
And what a sight for pity ere the close.
Chorus.
The booze, the booze,
Any way you choose,
No matter how you figure it you lose.
How many homes that suffer,
When they shelter such a duffer,
Whose presence causes heartaches, tears and blows,
But you can always tell ’em
If you can’t then you can smell ’em,
But if all the signs should fail you there’s the nose.
If you only take a drop
You know you’ll never stop,
Don’t you realize that dynamite explodes,
Better take an inventory,
Before you’re blown, no not to glory,
But to where they ignite quickly, Jimmy Rhodes.
What’s the matter with your clothes,
Or do you for artists pose,
Don’t you ever meditate or think
There’s enough loam in your hair
To rob an acre bare,
Take an invoice before another drink.
Stop, my friend, don’t be a slave,
Do not fill a drunkard’s grave,
Be a man from birth until close,
Come to him, the Galilean,
He will make your future clean,
He’s the one to take the add from off your nose.
What’s the Difference?
It matters not, so some folks say,
Where rests the form when ’neath the clay.
There is no choice when the heart is still,
Some always say and always will.
This may be true when we’re forgot,
And aught remains to mark the spot,
But a silent stone that stands all time,
With letters cold to tell mankind.
Some may not care where rest their bones,
In foreign lands or near their homes,
Where tender hearts can shed the tear
And bathe the roses on the bier.
I’d rather rest ’neath shady trees,
That beautify and kiss the breeze
With velvet grass spread over the plot,
With lilies and forget-me-not.
The Steering Wheel.
’Twas a party blithe and gay,
On a joy ride as they say,
Gliding many miles away from home.
Midnight long was by
They were coming in on high
When suddenly there was an awful moan.
The steering wheel went wrong, the papers said,
One was badly injured, three were dead.
The same old story neatly woven in a tale,
The sadness of the scene behind the vale,
And not a line or word to make you think,
What had put the wheel upon the blink.
The verdict of jury, so they say,
Said the steering wheel was loose and had too much play;
But by chance some people looking around,
Some real and newer evidence was found,
’Tis evidence you find and seldom fail
If you let the ribbon bottle tell the tale.
So in the name of justice, as I feel,
Why not exonerate the wheel.
Such High Taxes, Gee-Whilaker.
Such High Taxes, Gee-Whilaker.
Meadow larks, as you have undoubtedly noticed, warble many different songs. Theysound like this to me: One says, “Here is your homesick girl.” Another, “Light the light, it is gone down.” Another, “Here is your English preacher.” Another, “The smeeking smock bird,” and others, from which the following poem is written, say, “Such high taxes, Gee-whilaker.”
As I stood in the yard of our high taxed home,
And filled my lungs with pure ozone,
My eye went wandering far and nigh,
And I saw a meadow lark flitting by.
He flew to a post for a moment’s rest,
And gazed a while both east and west,
And then soared on, going higher and higher,
Till he perched way up on the court house spire.
From a bird’s eye view of quaint renown,
He sized up the modern Julesburg town,
The stand pipe built on the court house square,
Is an old eye sore with a record rare.
The power house hid from the passer by
Must been for economy, heat or pie?
The city sewer, electric lights,
Cement side-walks and high school sites,
Was picturesque and nice to heed,
But sad for the one that held the deed.
He raised his head as he ceased to note,
And out from the depths of his golden throat
His voice did peal as he said with a whirr,
Such high taxes, Gee-whilaker.
To the Mrs.
I am going to take a kiss,
And I know it’s not a miss,
But before I miss my kisses,
I will take them from the Mrs.
Kisses from the dear old Mrs.
Are the sweetest kind of kisses.
But if the Misses kisses,
Then there will be kisses Mrs.
Just as long as Mrs. kisses,
There’s no trouble with the Misses
But let the Misses kisses
And something’s doing Misses Mrs.
Don’t Procrastinate.
Don’t wait till tomorrow,
For joy or sorrow,
And miss the golden today.
For every minute,
Your heart’s not in it,
There’s something slipping away.
’Twas Jesus who said,
’Ere his spirit fled,
On the cross at Calvary,
That he who had hope,
Need never grope,
For the better things to be.
So don’t never worry,
And fret and flurry,
For things that’s not for you,
But hammer away,
At life’s forge today,
For things that are good and true.
Sister Mary.
Mary, I know not who
Has a truer heart than you.
Your’s a life that does excell
For doing every duty well.
In this world of woman kind
A purer life I couldn’t find,
If I looked my life time thru,
I would bring the crown to you.
I am proud to tell you, dear,
Your’s has been a life of cheer,
Where every hardship, trial and sorrow,
Was sweetly met before tomorrow.
May God’s blessing sweetly rest,
In a life so richly blessed
With kind words and cheerfulness,
For every heart that knew distress.
Yes.
’Twas underneath the columbine,
Where dearie said she would be mine,
My heart rejoiced at that glad word,
The sweetest one I ever heard.
I’ve wondered many times since then
How one word changes lives of men,
Some it makes and others breaks,
And others know they’ve made mistakes.
It gladdens some and saddens some,
It opens up the way to rum,
It fills the pen, the cells of jails,
It wags the tongue with many tales.
It fills the lawyer’s purse with fees,
It crowds the courts with quick decrees,
It to the drug store many guide,
It fills the graves with suicide.
It pulls the trigger of the gun,
It breaks the heart of many a one,
It causes pain where joy should be,
It fills the home with misery.
It joins the short unto the tall,
It never heeds old wisdom’s call,
It clasps the hands of slim and stout,
And makes a mess beyond a doubt.
It breaks the dishes on your head,
It makes you wish that you were dead,
It mixes father with the son,
It has no end when once begun.
It’s no respecter of your right,
It gets you out at dead of night,
It makes its scars and many a whelt,
It makes you cuss T. Roosevelt.
It makes the Irish like the Dutch,
The black the brown the squaw and such.
It causes if the truth would tell,
A thing on earth you all know well.
So with all wisdom I’ll confess,
Before you tackle this word yes,
Have these professions up in G,
Lawyer, preacher and M. D.
The Lay of the Last Hen.
’Twas yesterday the deed was done,
That made my heart feel like a ton,
When cruel fate held its sway,
And robbed my hen of her last lay.
The sympathy swelled in my breast,
For my old hen so long caressed,
Who stood by me for many years,
Thru joy and sorrow, mirth and tears.
When times were hard and crops were light,
There was to me no sweeter sight,
To get that egg and let it melt,
Underneath my gnawing pelt.
The tariff never worried her
She did her duty at one per,
Wilson, Taft or Roosevelt,
Never had a cause she felt.
She built the muscle in my arm,
She paid the taxes on the farm,
She kept the wolf from strolling in,
She clothed the kids from Kate to Win.
She always let the whole world know,
With joyful song in rain or snow,
That she’d performed a duty neat,
That man himself has never beat.
I couldn’t help it, I’ll confess,
The tears flowed freely, more or less,
When that dear form was tenderly laid,
Beneath the elm tree’s pleasant shade.
Here’s to the hen upon the nest,
That keeps the table, fills the guest,
Builds up the system, ne’er regrets
And brings results whene’er she sets.
The Dear Old Hod.
When I’ve labored hard all day,
And the supper’s cleared away,
There’s a joy before I nod,
When I load my dear old hod.
As the smoke curls in the air,
Chasing from me life’s dull care,
I can lean far back and think,
And put the worry on the blink.
Here’s to thee, Missouri cob,
Many years upon the job,
Your’s a mission not all bad,
If you ease the load on dad.
Dear Old Kate.
I know I stayed a little late,
The last time that I courted Kate,
I had a speech I wished to try,
And how the hours hurried by.
The question that I wished to pop,
Would never let me have the flop,
My cheeks would burn, my throat get dry,
I was nearly hot enough to fry.
I guess I tried a dozen times,
I drilled myself in all the lines,
But when I reached the vital point,
The whole blame works got out of joint.
It made me mad and also sad,
I felt like going to the bad,
I’d practised long, out in the trees,
Just how to face her on my knees.
I’d hold the bough as Katie’s hand,
And with the best at my command,
I’d bare my soul with pleading tears,
For her to join me all the years.
I guess I never would have won,
If Katie hadn’t just for fun
Heard my appeal with silent feet,
And said, “Why, sure, you dear old sweet.”
Tim.
Once I knew a man named Tim,
Thought a mighty lot of him,
For his goodness, heart and mind,
Were of such a loving kind.
Never heard him boast or tell,
Of the things he’d done so well:
Lips would kinda set with tension,
If his past you’d slightly mention.
Kinda made his face look sad,
Maybe some great grief he’d had,
But he’d pass it off and say,
Kinda looks like rain today.
Wasn’t much past fifty-nine,
Led a life serene and fine,
Lived just on the edge of town,
Liked to have the folks look round.
Greatest chum of little tads,
Liked to humor all their fads,
Fixed their wagons, made them trains,
Soothed their many cares and pains.
Made no difference to Tim,
If you’d never heard of him,
He would always say, “Hello,”
Said his mother taught him so.
Worldly goods he hadn’t much,
Never seemed to care for such,
Said he liked the Master’s way,
Of doing things for just today.
Dear old Tim took sick one night,
Thought his spirit would take flight,
But we all just hurried in,
And it helped revive old Tim.
Said it made him awful glad,
Wished a larger house he had,
But we all said, get well, Tim,
Couldn’t lose a man like him.
The Business Man.
Here is to the business man,
Who does the very best he can,
And pays to each their honest debt,
And don’t forget it makes him sweat.
He labors from the morn till night,
With brain and muscle in the fight,
To keep his head above the stream,
When finances are not serene.
He’s to the one you always go,
When life has pained you with a woe,
You know his purse is always free,
To lessen grief or misery.
You toss on him most carelessly,
The gratis job of town trustee,
And then you pass around the word,
He’s just the man for the school board.
He helps to school your girls and boys,
He shares with you your pains and joys,
He helps to pay the preacher’s bill,
And aids the churches with good will.
He has to pay his bills when due,
But if he asks the same of you,
You think your credit’s met his fears,
And let it run along for years.
You let him long and look and look,
At your account upon the book,
And you’ll admit if you are frank,
He pays your interest at the bank.
If he would say and tell you true,
When your account has long been due,
That ten per cent was charged to you,
You’d swear until the air was blue.
If he helps you, then why not him,
And don’t keep sending off your tin,
But give it to your home merchants,
And keep the gloss from off their pants.
Falling Snow.
There’s something in the falling snow,
That brings back years of long ago,
That makes you think of younger days,
Behind a span of gallant bays.
The frosty air, the rosy dames,
The secrets and the loving names,
Of days gone by long years ago,
Comes back today with falling snow.
The laughter pealed o’er rocks and trees,
The songs re-echoed with the breeze,
Of merry rides so bright and gay,
Are chasing thru my mind today.
The biting air with keen delight,
Puts crispness in the appetite,
And mother’s pies of golden hue,
Soon faded like the morning dew.
And how I wish I could today,
Turn back the years the youthful way,
And drive the bays and see them go,
And blush with youth midst falling snow.
That’s Sallie over there in that potato patch. She has been endeavoring to tease from mother earth enough tubers to supply the family through a long winter. Nature in this and many other instances has been unkind. The rain waited too long and the one supply of food that fills so large a place are small as marbles, nevertheless this dear soul laboriously gathered them and is carrying them, pail at a time, and storing them away for a long, cold winter. Though the tubers are small and puny, she has a way of cooking them with such marked success that they would tickle the palate of a king and he’d be passing his plate the second time.
Sal does the housework, the buying of supplies, cares for the chickens, plants the garden, does the sewing, picks up the paint brush when necessary, and does about everything that anyone can do. She is past fifty years of age, most of them hard and bitter years. They have not been the kind of years where the goal has been worth the trials and bitterness. The streaks of silver are beginning to show in her dark hair, she is small in physique, clean limbed, lithe, resourceful, determined, and intelligent. Her schooling in the practical side of life is an attainment any one should be proud of. She is one of the most wiry and courageous women that has ever lived such a grand and noble life and kept the sad, dreary and lonely part locked up in her unselfish heart.
Behold her as she is, one of God’s purestgifts! Her life is clean, wholesome and grand and of such a sweetness and beauty that mocks to scorn any imitation of the artist. For eight long years she has cared uncomplainingly for the aged, widowed mother as her almost sole benefactor of aid and cheer in the home. She has sacrificed, schemed, planned, worked, and struggled in a way that is worthy of our greatest financiers, diplomats, or statesmen. She has fought within her own heart far greater battles and carried away the victory to a more deserving reward than many a soldier on the battlefield. She has denied herself in order that she might give the fullest measure of devotion to a dear old mother who is slipping slowly, slowly to that great home of rest and comfort.
God bless you, Sallie, in your old age, when the silver streaks no longer glisten in yourhair and it is all turned to the whiteness and purity of snow; when your poor, tired aching limbs from their long years of toil no longer yield to quick response, when time chisels its deep furrows in your brow and your keen eye loses its lustre and grows dim. I hope God will reward you with the choicest gifts of his kingdom, and when the final summons is made and you stand in the open doorway of his love, bathed in the purity of the sparkling dew in the evening time of life, may the sweetness of your character come wafting gently in the fulness of its beauty and dwell amidst all that is holy, sweet and sacred.
Dearest Sal, you’re growing old,
But there never can be told,
The great jewels you possess,
In your life of righteousness.
I would love you just the same,
Had you reached the highest fame,
For you have a heart so true,
There would be no change in you.
You have done all duties well,
Better than my tongue can tell,
I would love to ease your way,
And turn your winters back to May.
I have but one life to live,
But for you I’d freely give,
I’d go down that lonesome valley,
If ’twould help you, dear old Sallie.
In endeavoring to entertain you in this chapter I wish I might have the wit of a Nasby or come Nye the Mark; but not having the brilliant talents of either of these illustrious wits who cracked the ribs of so many people I hope you will bear with me patiently as I proceed to give to you some rays of sunshine I have been picking up for the last twenty years from all classes of people.
A fellow said to me one time I’ll tell you a panacea for every ailment. I have taken it for years and you don’t need a skilled Pharmacist to compound it. This was the simple remedy: Trust in providence and keep yourbowels open. I thought it was a pretty good prescription and if applied carefully you would never have appendicitis or a good many other complaints. Of course, he said, some people ask too much of providence. I hardly think it fair to ask the Lord to furnish you the land, the patch of potatoes, a pail to put them in, a spade to dig them with, and then get down on your knees and in funeral tones tell him you are out of spuds and would like a mess for dinner with the jackets off. Don’t ask too much.
It is better to whistle than to groan. It will make some heart lighter to hear you whistle than to groan. If you can’t whistle a tune sizzle something through your teeth, there’s cheer in it for some one. No matter how worrisome, difficult or perplexing the problem is, don’t worry or brood over it.Whistle if you can, sizzle if you can’t. It will keep you from getting meloncolic; colic that comes from something besides eating too many Colorado watermelons with the accent strong on the water.
I’ve known people whom you’d think from all appearances they hadn’t a care in the world, the sunny side was always exposed and unconsciously they would be dropping encouraging words, doing kind deeds, lending acts of assistance, and doing everything to lessen the other fellow’s burden. They didn’t tell any one that they didn’t know where their breakfast was coming from, but somehow or other they would get hold of some patent breakfast food and eat it in its native state if no cow was at hand and then they were all right until the next meal, luncheon, I believe is the proper society word.
It never pays to be stingy with eulogies or encomiums. A little praise has caused many a breast to heave with gladness and chase away gloom. The cost is small, thank God it’s outside of the trusts. So don’t be backward in using it at every opportunity you meet. If the sermon is good, go up and tell the semi-paid man behind the pulpit, it won’t kill him. He may be surprised, but keep at it until he gets used to it. If brother or sister so and so has made a misstep and you are an unbeliever or not, don’t break your neck in rushing to your neighbor and ah, ahing it all over town. Let two thoughts get into your head at once and let the better thought prevail, and instead of helping stain the character of a poor unfortunate, make it your business to use your good advice, if you haven’t any then keep still.
When a church member steps from the narrow path, why has everybody such a sudden interest? Why does it cause such a loosening of tongues? The Bible says, “he that is without sin among you let him cast the first stone.” If any one but Jesus was without sin why not advertise it. Give it to the Post and use the red letters on the front page. The way I look at the parable quoted by Jesus is that if a stone is thrown some one has to throw it, it may be thrown with intent or carelessness, but in either event the stone has been thrown and some one will be struck, so the best way is not to throw the stone, if you have to throw something, go into one of the leagues and then don’t throw a stone. Throw a baseball, but don’t hit the umpire.
Wherever you can place a rose where a thorn has been, do it. There is both fragranceand class to a rose, something sweet, cheerful and pretty; but the fellow that can find any redeeming qualities in a thorn is not the person that can stand inspection. Where could you put him where he would be an improvement? You can’t progress unless you make use of the things progress is found in. Pluck the rose every time, leave the other alone.
Don’t wait ’till it’s time to erect the tombstone before you pay tribute to your dear friend. One small flower is worth more to the living than tons piled on their caskets. Some poor fellows never get tomb stones, head stones or anything to mark their graves. How much better you feel if you have never put a pebble in any one’s path as an obstruction to their progress than if you had been rolling boulders and now see your mistake. You can’t afford to do it. Pay your little tributes allalong the journey of life. Be as careful dropping pains or sorrows as you would dropping pearls.
Don’t wait ’till your father, mother or wife dies, then lie about them on their tombstones. You only have one father and one mother; be careful and think some before you pour out any derogatory statements or cheap invectives concerning them. Your wife is entitled to a great many compliments you never gave her. The reverential words on the slab in the cemetery isn’t going to fool any one, and have them to believe, as you would wish, that you did the fine thing, when really you are to blame for stealing from her about twenty years of her life time. You’ve caused hollow cheeks where roses should have been and you stole many pleasures from her and enjoyed them all by yourself. Too much swine in yournature to make people think you were sincere in your profuse epigram on the tombstone.
So many people think they are endowed with a peculiar and special sort of wisdom and are able to fool their fellow men so successfully that they try it on the Lord. Here is where they make a fatal mistake, for the Lord certainly knew what he was doing when he made countenances. The newspaper’s most clever ads are no comparison to the clean, open ads the Lord puts on faces and the clear unfrosted windows where you can look far into the soul.
You can’t break man’s laws without being detected. If you are a sneak criminal, inebriate, crook, lascivious, immoral or any other of the degrading types in the category of a false man, the warning is openly and clearly displayed on your countenance. You can’t flyfalse colors and succeed, for sooner or later you pay the penalty to the last farthing. When you hear the remark “I don’t like his looks,” there is something shown in the countenance to verify the statement or no accusation would have been made. Be a man and your face will do the advertising.
Don’t be afraid of censure or criticism or let it keep you from helping the fellow that is down. God gave us religion for that purpose. It’s something to use every day in the week and not a specialty for the Sabbath; the more you use it the brighter it gets. Anything you don’t use and keep polished loses its usefulness and becomes rusty. Use it whenever you can and you’ll be surprised the confidence you gain in people’s hearts. It’s the greatest purifier in the world, that’s why God gave it to us. He knew what he was doing. It’s the onlything in the world that will lift up the fallen woman, the drunken man, the horse thief, the blasphemer and all others when every hand is turned against them. It’s a panacea for every evil. It’s the only thing that will take humanity with all their sins after they are entirely forsaken and down at the threshhold of hell and make them better. It will take them in the eleventh hour when they come sneaking in at the back door with characters stained as black as night and every law has been transgressed, but as they plead piteously for forgiveness, their petition is heard and all their sins are blotted out and the Lord gives them another chance. He stoops down in his great mercy and love and gives them that peace beyond all understanding. He raises them up and helps them reach for the cross when no hand is extended to help them.
At every opportune chance laugh long and heartily, nothing is better to cheer and comfort, and while it is doing the other fellow good you are getting the cheapest medicine on the market for your digestive organs. Try it after you eat some boarding house pancakes an inch think. You have lots of things to smile for. There is always some one else worse off than yourself. You see them everywhere. If you have a large family your neighbor has a larger one. If you have none at all pity your neighbor who can’t figure out some way to get rid of his mother-in-law without losing his wife. If you are able to hobble around, have a heart for the fellow in the wheel chair and the fellow that has to stay flat on his back and never sees the sun rise.
There are two kinds of sunshine; one is entirely dependent upon the individual and theother was inaugurated shortly after creation. Each is necessary to fill the divine plan. While one kind is periodical in some people, the other is always at hand unless clouds intervene. God’s sunshine is unexcelled and is a marvel in itself for warmth, beauty, cheerfulness and grandeur. The rising and falling of this wonderful orbit body is said to start and finish the work of man, as he was supposed to labor and scheme from sun to sun.
This plan may have been popular and proper before the day of the multi-millionaire, but the time is too short for the present day man, and in order to pay the necessary obligations to exist the twilight at both ends must be consumed and then reach in and grab several hours of darkness. The housewife may have to sew and rock the baby and prove her contention that her work is never done, but it’sup to the Governor, the old man, Dad, or any other name you may call him, to keep the flour in the bin, coal in the bucket, shoes on the children, and an endless number of other things. He’s the lad that must fix it up with the banker when the note is renewed. He must through some devised method dress the kids in schools as good as his more prosperous neighbor, or there’s snobs and tears. He must provide something besides the proverbial soup bone that one neighbor could borrow from another through the winter months. He must buy the latest books, procure lyceum and chautauqua tickets, pay the preacher, the ice man, the milk man, the water man, light man, and dig continually for charity, and thus you see the sun to sun theory has the bottom torn out of it.
Dad is never still long enough for the birdsto build nests in his goatee and set three weeks. If he slackens up you notice a visible reduction in your pancake pile. The Lord didn’t make the suns far enough apart for dad or some other people. I worked for a farmer one time that used to start out with a handmade sun about two-thirty A. M. and never ceased till ten P. M. The meals always bothered me; I couldn’t tell if it was breakfast the next morning or two suppers. If God’s sunshine meets man’s sunshine and the two mix properly, you’ve got an individual that is a continual pleasure, one whose existence is exhilarating. He whistles and sings and smiles and laughs and gets out of life everything that is good, and everybody likes and knows him.
I was never so ashamed in my life as I was one time when I had encased in my left cheeka quid of tobacco the size of a hen’s egg. I was carrying on nonchalantly a conversation with a depot master, and the saliva was gathering so rapidly, it wasn’t long before I could only grunt. I always disliked to ruin a floor with expectoration and was also embarrassed by the presence of the agent’s boy, a little fellow of four years, but my mouth was so full and my cheeks so inflated that leakage was starting and I was forced to eject it or swallow it. I chose the former and let it go. It sounded like the distant booming of guns and the space required to contain it on the floor was unbelievable. If its dimensions didn’t cover a foot square outside of the innumerable rivulets in every direction, I’ll buy my wife a twelve dollar Easter bonnet for a Christmas present. The little boy looked at it and said, “My, that’s a big one!” I sneakedout crestfallen, abashed and ashamed, but didn’t have the sense to quit for some years afterwards, when the preacher said something about the ashes to ashes and dust to dust.