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You can get to any station that is on life's schedule seen
that's grand, If for all the slippery places you've a good supply of sand.
In Richmond (Ind.) Register.
I cannot say, and I will not say
With a cheery smile and a wave of the hand,
And loyal still, as he gave the blows
When the little brown thrush that harshly chirred
James Whitcomb Riley.
A PSALM OF LIFE
Tell me not in mournful numbers,
"Life is but an empty dream!"
And things are not what they seem.
And the grave is not its goal;
Was not spoken of the soul.
Is our destined end or way;
Find us farther than today.
Art is long, and time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the bivouac of life,
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead past bury its dead!
Heart within and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
Footprints on the sands of time.
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing.
With a heart for any fate;
Henry W. Longfellow.
A MEMORIAL DAY VISION
The past, as it were, rises before me like a dream. Again we are in the great struggle for national life. We hear the sound of preparation-the music of the boisterous drums, the silver voices of the heroic bugles. We see thousands of assemblages, and hear the appeals of orators, we see the pale faces of women and the Aushed faces of men; and in those assemblages we see all the dead whose dust we have covered with flowers. We lose sight of them no more. We are with them when they enlist in the great army of freedom. We see them part with those they love. Some are walking
for the last time in quiet, woody places with the maidens they adore. We hear the whisperings and the sweet vows of eternal love as they lingeringly part forever. Others are bending over cradles kissing babes that are asleep. Some are receiving the blessings of old men. Some are parting with mothers who hold them and press them to their hearts again and again, and say nothing; and some are talking with wives and endeavoring, with brave words spoken in the old tones, to drive away the awful fear. We see them part. We see the wife standing in the door with the babe in her arms-standing in the sunlight sobbing. At the turn of the road a hand waves—she answers by holding high in her loving hands the child. He is gone, and forever.
We see them all as they march proudly away under the Haunting flags, keeping time to the wild, grand music of war-marching down the streets of the great cities-through the towns and across the prairies—down to the fields of glory, to do and die for the eternal right. We go with them one and all. We are by their side on all the gory fields, in all the hospitals of pain, on all the weary marches. We stand guard with them in the wild storm and under the quiet stars. We are with them in the ravines running with bloodin the furrows of old fields. We are with them between the contending hosts, unable to move, wild with thirst, the life ebbing slowly away among the withered leaves. We see them pierceu by balls and torn with shells in the trenches of forts, and in the whirlwind of the charge, where men became iron with nerves of steel. We are with them in the prisons of hatred and famine, but human speech can never tell what they endured. We are home when the news comes that they are dead. We see the maiden in the shadow of her sorrow. We see the silvered head of the old man bowed with the last grief. The past rises before us. We hear the roar and shriek of the bursting shell. The broken fetters fall. These heroes died. We look. Instead of salves we see men and women and children. The wand of progress touches the auction block, the slave pen and the whipping post, and we see homes and firesides and schoolhouses and books, and where all was want and crime, and cruelty and fear, we see the faces of the free.
These heroes are dead. They died for liberty—they died for us. They are at rest. They sleep in the land they made free, under the flag they rendered stainless, under the solemn pines, the sad hemlocks, the tearful willows, the embracing vines. They sleep beneath the shadows of the clouds, careless alike of sunshine or storm, each in the windowless palace of rest. Earth may run red with other wars—they are at peace. In the midst of battle, in the roar of conflict, they found the serenity of death.
I have one sentiment for the soldier, living and deadcheers for the living and tears for the dead.
Robert G. Ingersoll.
THE FOOTPATH TO PEACE
A Thought for the Opening Year To be glad of life, because it gives you the chance to love and to work and to play and to look up at the stars; to be satisfied with your possessions, but not contented with yourself until you have made the best of them; to despise nothing in the world except falsehood and meanness, and to fear nothing except cowardice; to be governed by your admiralions rather than by your disgusts; to covet nothing that is your neighbor's except his kindness of heart and gentleness of manners; to think seldom of your enemies, often of your friends and every day of Christ; and to spend as much time as you can with body and with spirit, in God's out ofdoors-these are little guide-posts on the footpath to peace.
Henry Van Dyke.