THE LAST JOURNEY,
The little traveler set forth
With one last smile of sweet content.
There are no footprints south or north,
To show to us the way she went;
No tiny footprints in the snow.
No flower for token backward thrown,
"Sweetheart," we wept, "why must you
po?"
Smiling, she went her way, alone.
The little traveler went her way
And left us all who loved her so.
She journeyed forth at break of day—■
A long, long way she had to go.
The stars were paling in the sky—
Their kind eyes must have seen her start.
"Come back to ua.dear heart,dear heart!"
The little traveler's tiny feet
Have found a path that we must find.
She w .3 so little and so sweet!
We cannot linger, left behind.
We stumble, seeking day by day,
0 little traveler! Who will .send
A guide to point us out the way
To find vou at the journey's end?
—Francis Carine, in Youth's Companion.
The
Wooing of Is'bel.
By ALFRED J. WATERHOUSE.
99999999fW 99^999999999^999
£ r s s'E night there was n
I 1 dance down to Angels,"
V/ said the Old Settler, "a IT
Reub Banuertou, bein' kin
der lonesome, e'neluded he'd go. He
was a mighty modest man, Reub was,
an' he was sittin' by the wall, not
cale'latin' to dance, when a girl he
never saw walked up to him. She was
n big girl with square shoulders, an'
anybody could see she didn't need
much male pertectlon. Reub looked at
her an' then looked nway, nn' she says:
" 'Hev the nex' waltz with me, pnrd
ner?'
"Reub was new in this country, then,
an' didn't know much 'bout the ekallty
of the sexes. So he sorter shuffled his
feet aroun' an' fin'ly says:
" 'l'm mighty Borry, hut I don't know
how tor wnltz,' which was a lie due to
his bashfulness, but Is'bel, which was
her name, didn't know It then.
" 'Oh, come on,' she says, 'that
needn't make no diff'rence; I can swing
you.'
"So lie went, an' if you'd seen the
subsekcnt proceedin's you'd hev
thought she could swing him. More'n
half the time his feet never touched
the floor, an' ills faee shone so with
perspiration that It looked like one of
these new-fnngled Indecent lights. But
he kept tliinkln', 'Waal, it'll be over
pretty soon; I won't hev to stand it
long.'
"The waltz ended at last, an' Reub
was wondcrln' whether he orto thank
her for the pleasure or she orto thank
him, when she says:
" 'lf It don't make no diff'rence to
you we'll go out on the veraudy an' sit
out the nex' dance. I'm tired.'
"It did make a diff'rence to him. for
he was gittln' oneasy, but when he
come to look at her he couldn't think
of any way out of it, so he went.
"The firs', thing she did after they got
on the vernndy was to grab Ills hand,
Reub tided to pull it nway, hut she
grabbed it firm an' unyieldin' an' says
in pleadin' tones:
" 'Oh, my b'lovcd one!"
" 'I ain't neither your b'lovcd one,'
says Reub, soothin'l.v, hut firmly. 'I
ain't never done notliin' to encourage
these unman unwomanly perceedin's
of yours. I never saw you 'fore to
night.'
" 'You are, too, my b'loved one. You
may not know it. hut you are my soul's
'finity that I've been waitin' fer, an' I
felt it jus' as soon as I saw you. Oh,
my 'dored one!'
. "Waal, Rculi sot there more'n fifteen
minutes tryin' to convince her that lie
wan't her 'dored one, an' that prob'ly
her soul's 'finity'd he 'long on the ne:i'
emigrant train, but she only grabbed
his hand tighter an' tried to pull Ills
head onto her shoulder. He asked her
to tlflnk how his mother would feel if
she knew how he was bein' led on, hut
she still clung. She was hit hard,
Is'bel was.
"Fin'ly she let go of his hand to
hruSli a fly off lier ear, an' Reub run.
Is'bel looked after him, sayln' so that
Bill Hawkins heered it, 'He ylt shall he
mine, my b'loved one; he yit shall be
mine!'
"Nex' mornln' early Reub started out
propectln'. Ho said he felt zlf he was
a ha'nted man an' reckoned he'd better
seek s'elusion.
"The second day he was out, 'bout
evenin', he was sittin' by his cabin
door when n liorso an' his rider come
aroun' the big rock by his cabin, nn' a
tender voice says:
" 'I have found you, oh, my b'loved!'
"Reub didn't look up, hut he says:
" 'I ain't your b'loved, I tell you, an'
you orto know it by this time.'
"Rcnb says her voice was low an'
ecstatic, though somewhat bass, as
Is'bel's voice allers is. when she again
says: 'I have found you, oh, my
b'lovcd!' he kinder hesitated. Then lie
gays:
" 'Waal, s'posln' you have found me,
though I ain't any such thing, what do
you propose to do about it?'
" 'Oil, the delicious bliss of this here
moment when I again found my soul's
'finity!'
" 'You may have found your soul's
'finity, hut it is due to j'ou for me to
suggest that iy has not found you. nn'
I want to know what you propose to
do 'bout it, as I said before.'
" 'lt does not matter; to be with you
Is enough.'
" 'Waal, it does matter, too. I'm a
lone an' lonely mnn, hut if worse comes
to worst I can pertect myself. You
may be stronger'n me, hut you can't
lure me. What would the world say
if it knew 'bout this?'
" 'I can trust my soul's companion.'
"By this time Is'bel had dismounted,
an', seizing Reub's hand in her own,
she says;
" 'l'm goin' to set right here till you
promise to he my own.'
" 'All I've got to say is that you've
laid out a long program for yourself.'
"They sot there, an' sot. Is'bel
'peared to be c'ntented jus' to set an'
hold his hand, an' Renb tried to whis
tle nn' act zlf he didn't know she was
there. Every onco in n while he'd try
to pull his hand away, but she'd grip
It the tighter, an' then he could hear
lier wliisperin' low to herself, 'Oh, my
b'loved!'
"After a while the stars come ont an"
begun to play hide an' seek with them
through the branches of the pines. It
got chilly, too, nn' onco Reub suggest
ed that lie would git a blanket for
Is'bel, cale'latin' that he could make n
run for it if he could git a start, hut
she ouly says, 'Oh, my b'loved!' an'
hung right onto his hand. She was
hard hit, Is'bel was.
" 'Bout dusk, too, the bullfrogs over
by the spring struck up, nil' as it grew
darker an' darker they became more
'n' more Interested In the couple. Firs'
a little fellow would chirp out au' say,
'What's he gain' to do 'bout it?' Then
the little feller's ma would ask his pa,
'What's lie goin' to do 'bout it?' an' his
pa would c'nsidor for a minute, give it
up an' ask anybody that could answer.
'What's lie goin' to do 'liout it?' Leas',
that's the way Reub said it seemed to
him.
"Then, long 'bout ten or 'levon o'clock
a big gray owl come an' perched in the
branches over their heads, an' pretty
soon he got cnr'us an' says 'Who-o-o?'
an' Reub was so mad by that time that
lie answers right up. 'lt's me, blame
you! What you got to say about it?'
But Is'bel only kinder sighed an' says,
'Oh, my b'loved!' She was hard hit,
Is'bel was.
"It got to he midnight, an' still they
sot there. Reub was most froze, but
Is'bel didn't seem to mind It. 'Bout 2
o'clock, Reub says, lie got sorter dis
couraged, bein' mos'ly an icicle by that
time, an' so he soys to lier:
" 'Waal, what do you want me to
do?'
" 'Only to be my own, my 'dored
one.'
"Reub won't quite broke down ylt,
so lie says, "Waal, I'm blamed if I
will!' But after nn hour or two morn
ho got plum tired out an' made his las'
argument. 'I don't want to git mar
ried,' ho says; 'I ain't got 'nough
money to s'port n wife, anyway.'
"'You needn't worry 'bout that
b'loved. Only say you love me an' I'll
s'port you.'
"Ileub see lie didn't stan' no show;
so lie inquires, sullen like, 'Waal,
where do you want to take me?'
" 'To Tarson Elder's an' git married
to once, b'loved.' ■
"All the way to the parson's—seven
teen miles it was—they walked, Is'bel
lcadln' the horse with one hand an'
Reub with the other. She didn't take
a single chance till after he'd admitted
to the parson that lie took her till death
us do part nn' nil tile res' of it. Then
she heaved a sigh nn' let go of his
hand, tenderly sayin', 'My own
b'loved!' She thought n consld'hlo
heap of Reuben, Is'bel did. Reckon
I'd better meander."
The Old Settler "meandered," but
at the door he paused for a final re
mark :
"I don't s'poso there's no happier
couple in Californy than Mr. an' Mrs.
Reuben Bannerton, or per'aps I orto
say Mrs. an' Mr. Is'bel Bannerton.
They've been married seventeen years,
nn' lias five children, lint she nllers
c'nsiders Reub the firs' and tenderes'
of the lot. She's c'nsid'ble fond of
Reuben, Is'bel is." Then ho "mean
dered."—Now York Times.
IMsgulseg of Nature,
By a decree of nature, one-half of the
world flourishes at the expense of the
other half. The sparrow chases the
butterfly, hut the hawk chases the
sparrow. For the problem of life is
twofold. It is not enough merely to
eat; it is necessary to avoid being
eaten. Yet nature detests killing for
killing's sake. Massacre forms no part
of lier great plan. So we see that
every creature is provided with some
more or less effective quality of de
fense, by means of which the nttacks
of its natural enemies are rendered
less frequent or less deadly.
Thus the nntelope, by means of ift
superior speed, at times escapes from
the Hon. The nrmadillo, rolled in its
wondrous coat of mall, lies secure
among n score of hungry, gnawing
foes, while the white hare, scarcely
distinguishable from the white snow
on wiiieh it crouches, Is often over
looked by his foe, the fox. But of ail
creatures none have received more
nmpb protection than the insects.
Some of them possess stings, others
bite and a few puff out clouds of pois
onous vapor to stupefy or blind their
pursuers. Again, there aro insects
clothed in impenetrable armor, insects
' covered with sharp spines and prickles
| and others whose means of defenso
I consist in nothing but a likeness to the
I objects which surround them.—Royal
| Magazine.
Splnitfim Drink I.ens Tea.
Along with other characteristics of
spinsterhood that have gone glimmer
ing down the aisles of memory and
tradition Is that of devotion to tea.
The spinsters of to-dny drink coffee,
good and strong, much more frequent
ly than tea. Not a few of them de
mand even stronger beverages, but fori
none of them would the teapot be an)
appropriate emblem. Ten no longed
serves, perhaps is not needed, to soothe
the wounded vanity or console tliosd
women who are outside the mntrß
raoninl palace of bliss. "Afternoon
| tea" still stands ns a convenient termj
j but it includes almost everything exJ
I cept tea, and when that harmless bev
erage is served it is so doctored that
the tea-drinking old maid of tradition
would not recognize it.—Taeomfl
Ledger.
(She Ff
lde of
UfCo
OVERLOADED.
Don Cupid's lot is hard, indeed,
And labor is his guerdon:
The little god who used to laugh
Now bears a heavy burden.
Ilia bo-v and arrow cast aside,
Hi., woe he scarce can smother;
With Dun's tucked underneath one arm
And Bradstreet's in the other.
—New York Times,
HIS, ENGAGING REMARK.
Mr. Dumhead—"Nelson was coming
to call, but I told him you would be
engaged this evening "
Miss Olemade (rapturously) "Oh,
William!"—Princeton Tiger.
SEVERED HIS CONNECTION.
"Were you discharged from your last
plpce ?"
"No; they didn't want me any longer,
and so I left."—Brooklyn Life.
TnE LANDSMAN AT SEA.
"What was the matter. Captain?"
"Oh, nothing at all, but the engineer
thought the screw was broke."
"Well, no one could see it tinder the
water, so it would not matter anyway,
would it?"— The Moon.
YIELDED TO THE INEVITABLE.
Bllson—"So you have a titled son-in
law? I suppose yon consider him a
hlgli honor?"
Tribbler—"Well, yes, ho did come
rather high, but Carrie seemed sort of
set upon buying him,"—Boston Tran
script.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN ALL.
Ho—"I kind o' think I'vo eeeu you lie
fore. Ain't you a shop girl at Bar
gen's?"
She—"Sir! I'm a saleslady."
He—"That so? I'm an elevator gen
tleman at the same place."—Philadel
phia Press.
AT A STREET CORNER.
Old Crusty (to beggar)—" Look here,
my fine fellow. An. able-bodied man
like you should work, not beg. You
ought to be given In charge."
Beggar (bitterly)—"l'm safe agin you,
anyhow, if there's any glvin' In it.
Y'ou alnt 110 gtver."
~ QUITE DIFFERENT,
May—"But why do you think be
mado a mistake in taking up music as
a profession? I always thought he
played the fiddle rather welL"
Ann—"lt's quite evident that you
never heard him perform upon the vio
lin."—Brooklyn Life.
IMMEDIATE RESULTS.
One day my. little brother insited on
staying out In the rain. On being
asked why he dkl not come in he said:
"I have to get watered so I'll grow."
Next day he said; "Yesterday I was
only up to my nose, and I've grown to
the top, of my head in the night, be
cause I stayed out in tho rain."
WHAT DILTHE MEAN?
Phil Uppe—"l'm tired o' dls trnmpin*
business, Pete, and I'm goin' ter make
a change."
Pete —"What's ye goin' ter do?"
Phil Uppe—"Well, I t'ink I'll open a
bank."
Pete—"Wld dynlmlte?"—Detroit Free
Press.
WHY HARRY WEPT.
"Why, Harry, what's the matter?"
asked a mother of her four-year-old
j hopeful, who was crying as If his heart
I would break.
] "G-grandpa slipped on the s-street
! and g-got his c-clothes all m-muddy,"
j sobbed the little fellow.
"Well, don't cry about it dear," said
tho mother. "I'm glad to see you so
; kind-hearted and sympathetic, how
ever."
"It a-ain't that," sobbed Harry.
, "S-stster s-saw him and I U-dldn'L"
' Chicago News.
| HER DOUGH "RIZ" ALL RICHT.
The Embarrassing Experience of a Kind.
Hearted Woman of Skpwhegan.
A medicine bottle, n mirror and a
bunch of keys, all sticking to a cbnnk
of dough ns largo as your head was
the sight that met a Skowhegnn wom
an's view when she opened her satchel
in tho Skowhegan car en route to Lew
iston.
She had wondered for some tlmo
what it was that was swelling out tho
sides of her satchel in such an unpro
portionnto manner, and she opened the
satchel to find out She utrugglhd to
close it, but she could not. Tho man
In the rear seat looked over her back
to see what the matter was. The con.
ductor stopped to look at ber in her
helpless state.
"What's the matter, madam?" he In
quired.
"Oh, nothing. Bread Is rising, can't
you see? Oil, get away!"
She got her fingers In the dough and
then she got mad. She tried to pull
them. She tried to close the satchel,
but it would not close.
"Confound that thing," she said, and
the satchel, comb, mirror and dough
disappeared out through a window.
When she tells her friends about the
case now she laughs at tho horrid
fellow-passenger and conductor, but
she did not feel like it then.
She was coming to visit a friend in
Lewiston. The friend admired her
bread very much and said it was tho
best in the world, so, not having any
bread ready to bring with her, she
seized upon a large piece of dough
which was raising in a pan before the
fire, and, wrapping It in a napkin, she
placed it in her grip with the above
result.—Lewiston (He.) Journal. ,
Tho Istisslnn Succession.
It was hoped and expected in Russia
tlvat tho Czar's ouly surviving brother,
tho Grand Duke Michael, who now
bears the title of Czarevitch, would
shortly be displaced from this position
by the birth of a male heir-apparent
in the direct lino, hut for tho fifth time
since his marriage Nicholas 11. has
been disappointed, and this time more
acutely than before. Four daughters
have been born to him at pretty regu
lar Intervals since lS'Ju, but now tho
Imperial court physicians certify to
the premature confinement of the Em
press.
The question of tho Russian succes
sion is by no means clear. According
to n decree of the Emperor Paul of
1707, the succession is by right of
primogeniture, with proference of male
over female heirs, hut this must be a
different law from that of our own
royal house, otherwise the Czar's
brother would not be his present heir
apparent In preference to his eldest
daughter. Since the accession of tho
Romanoffs Russia has been ruled at
various times by four Empresses, but it
is not certain that, failing the present
Czarevitch—whose constitution is by
no means robust—his position ns the
heir-apparent would not be taken by
the Czar's uncle, the Grand Duke
Vladimir, tho handsomest and ablest
member of the imperial house—a kind
of cross in character and accomplish
ments between Nicholas 1., our an
tagonist of the Crimea, and liis son,
Alexander 11., tho emancipator of tho
serfs.—London Chronicle.
Stolen Watches Not Pawned in Paris.
Of watches alone there are received
nt Mont-de-piete and the twenty-two
branch offices from 1000 to 1200 a day,
about 350,000 in a year, tho average
loan on a watch being thirty or forty
francs. The official assured me that 111
this great number of watches scarcely
one in 1000 has been stolen, the fact
being that people who have come dis
honestly by watches or other property
fight shy of the Mont-de-plete. Tho
reason of tills was presently made
plain as we watched the formalities of
record, and I realized how difficult It
would be for any one to do business
here under a concealed identity. Ev
ery client receiving a loan greater than
fiften francs must produce some of
ficial document—an insurance policy, a
citizen's voting card, a permit to carry
arms or a rent receipt bcnrlng ids
signature and throwing light upon his
station In life. For loans under fifteen
francs the client is simply required to
show an envelope sent through the
mails to his address. All these facts
with various others, are duly inscribed
upon huge record sheets, so that who
ever deals with tho Mont-de-plete ex
poses hlqisolf to n scrutiny that must
be ungrateful to folks of shady ante
cedents. Indeed, certain persons make
this a grievance against the Mont-de
piete, and declare tho Paris system
an impertinent intrusion upon a client's
privacy, which would F mi a point
badly taken if the client is an honest
man.—Century Magazine.
The Shriveling of the Earth.
Measured by the yardstick, the world
to-day is as great as in the days of the
Pharoahs. A hundred years ago it still
retained that formidable girth. To
day, measured by the hourglass, tho
planet has shriveled luto a mere mlnln
ture of its former self. Under the com.
pressure of electricity, steam and steel
bridges, a spectacle is presented of
practical time and space annihilation.
Seas have been dried up, continents
pushed together, and islands wedded
that this might be. Nations once iso
lated are now In earshot of one an
other, and the markets of all peoples
lino a single street. American wheat
fields are days, not mouths, away from
British hakeshops. New York Is on
the outskirts of London and Paris not
a block away. Deep sea cables and
land wires hom tho buyers and sellers
of the world into a vortex of competi
tion, whose diameter is a minute, and
qithln whoso circumference are gath
ered all the produce and the purses of
mankind.—National Magazine.
If you would have your affection re
'■ clprocated get stuck on yourself.
The Sanatorium
Treatment of Tuberculosis
By Dr. Herbert M. King.
SHE climate must be neither very cold cor very warm for the
treatment of the consumptive. It must be dry, but not dry
enough to hold dust suspended In the air. The air must be
stimulating and the elevation should be more than 1000 feet
above the sea level. "y
Two things are needed in the successful treatment of the
consumptive—hyperaea-atlon and increased nutrition. There
should be systematlaed feeding to the limit. Exercise in the
open and rest in a redlining position are needed. The weight
is Increased by rest and "stutiing," but if the weight is increased above the nor
mal it is at the expense of the well-being of the patient Take as an analogous
exaaiple stall-fed animals, which are prone to tuberculosis.
The laboratory of a consumptive sanatorium should be equipped for medical
research; there is little research at these institutions except at the one at Sar
anae Lake.
The minimum time for an incipient and uncomplicated case in a sanatorium
is three months; for a more advanced case, six months or more. If they have
clean homes and wholesome occupations, they may then go home.
In acute cases liquid food should predominate. As pulse and temperature
fall, more proteids should bo given. Baths, according to the ability of tho
patients to stand them, should bo indulged In, and light outdoor exercise is
beneficial. Games, such as croquet, outdoor bowling, archery and modified
golf may be pursued, but not until the patient is tired.
Jc?
Clean and Unclean Money.
By the Rev. Dr. P. S. Grant.
S3 the man who lias done some wrong to bo denied the right to
do some good? All these big gifts to institutions proceed
either from motives of contrition or else the man is not so
bad as we think him. I think it is pretty generally understood
that all those gifts are In a sort of way an expiation, a sop
to relieve the conscience. The more public the gift the more
fully it is understood that the man is sorry.
Some man to-day consolidates a few railroads and demands
and gets a fow millions of dollars for his pains. Are wo going
to refuse the gift of the man who has mado his money in this way, saying that
it is tainted money? We must not be too squeamish about these gifts under
the present industrial situation. We see the college professor who Is giving
his best so inadequately paid that he well-nigh starves. Out of all this giving
we may arrive at a state of society when we will not try to wring the last cent
out of our neighbor but rather enjoy the blessed pleasure of giving.
Great gifts from tainted fortunes are nets of restitution. Judas's money
was not put in the treasury of the temple but devoted to the use of the com
munity as it was "blood money." That is the only use for these vast fortunes. /
There is no fear that gifts to educational institutions from such sources will i
result in the elimination of free thought in those colleges and the substitution
for them of views peculiar to the donor. Let us tako all the money we can from
such sources. They cannot restrict education or net in any way harmful to the
public weal.
<6?
The Law and the Penalty. ,
By George Harvey.
——*o such of the students of evil as wish to understand its nature rather
Tthan to practice It, there has been nothing more dismaying than the
apparent uncertainty and even inability of the law in the case of
many offenders against it Not only the law which is supposed to
be administered in what are drolly called the courts of justice is of
this faltering and erring effect, but the law by which a man of bad
XX Xv. conscience judges and punishes himself, when there is 110 statute
made and provided for his misdemeanor, is equally inoperative. It
__J has been noted by those who have much to do with criminals that
■> remorse is apparently more the effect of temperament than of re
sponsibility, and that those feel it most who need feel it least. Tho guijjw
man is said to be more concerned in getting off than in lamenting his misdeed!
and this fact, if it is a fact, has been turned to account by the agnostic science
of a period which seems now closed, in disestablishing the notion of a moral
government of tho universe. Tluit science discarded the old idea of Come
uppings in the affairs of men, and left tho strongest to survive, without regret,
by whatever menus he would. It concerned itself with tho physical and in
tellectual evolution of the race, and allowed the individual to wander In dark
ness as to what would happen to him if he did wrong, even what would happen
to him from himself, or from tho god within him. Bnt there are signs that
this sort of science has had its day,- and there is an obvious return to some of
the former Ideals, especially among the psychological inquirers. These
find it their business not only to ascertain new facts, but to revise the conclu
sions of science in regard to the old ones. Tho soul Is once more having n
chance and conscience is coming back to its own, at least iu the interest of the
spectator. Whether it will come back a chastened and instructed conscience,
or tho sick and crazy thing it too often was, a Bourbon that has learned nothing
and forgotten nothing, remains to bo seen. What is certain is that It is meeting
the recognition as a moral force which has been largely denied it for a genera
tion past, and that It is being studied with an Intelligence freed from theological
preoccupations to fresh activity.—Harper's Weekly.
JZ? JS?
Success—lts Cause and Effect
Merit and Work, Not Luck, Are the
Watch words.
By Emily Elsnor.
■ UCCESS! Is there a brighter word In our entire dictionary?
Does it not scintillate with all the good things of life? Is it not
Success, or even an approach to it, that entices the weary trav
■ —| eler into dark and unknown paths, buoyed up by the hope that
I fl? v B this beacon light may cast its ray 9 o'er the end of his journey?
■ 9 When you hear of a successful mail, you instantly conjure
I J V up visions of a pompous, self-satisfied gentleman, leaning back
a 1 in his office chair and toying with his watch chain, while, com-
jS plaeently, he looks from tho high pedestal of success down on
11 the tolling mob at his feet Ho entertains royally, his dinners
W are the talk of the town, his wife's gowns and Jewels are tho
envy of the women of her set, and the finest tutors of the gentle arts and
graces are engaged to teach his children the very latest foibles In culture. Take
it all in all, the petals of roses are cast in thick, soft profusion in his path,
while the thorns are thrown into tho road that the unlucky ones may tread
thereon.
"Luck—that's the thing," yon grumble, enviously. Jenlousy rankles in your
breast, and you shulllc along, cursing the fates that deal thus fortunately wltliV
one man and harshly and ungenerously with another. "What's the good oif
starving?" yon say. Luck is against you and you might as well give up.
"Down with the rich!" you cry, striking the universal chord of the unfortunate.
Instead of studying the science of accumulating money, you study the evils of
accumulated wealth.
Thus you go through life, bemoaning your own fate, and In your heart envy
ing and hating the successful man. You like to tell the story of so and so, the
successful man, who In your boyhood days was proud to be seen playing mar
bles wtth you; and you like to wind up dramatically: "See him torday. He Is
rich—l am poor; wo are farther apart than the poles. He scorns me. His
money separates us. The fates Will It sol"
As a matter of fact—the fates had nothing to do with It.. The man of
sound mind and body, the man of will, energy, perseverance—the man of good
heart and spirit is master not only of his destiny, but of destinies! The qualities
I have enumerated are the heritage, the birthright of every man! He who al
lows any of these, his natural faculties, to wither for waut of exercise. Is not
and cannot hope to be the successful man!
With the perversity of human nature you study only the effect of success.
Why not study its cause? Therein, and therein only, lies your chance. Ite
meinber, while you are talking and moaning the other man Is doing! Doa'jt .
blame things to luck! It is work, work, work—faithful, persistent, unceasing*
work that wins success.
Could you but see the successful man produce his success a little admiration
and wonder might join and possibly preoedo your Ire and envy. Day after day
and ffir into the night, he toils with body and brain, often putting in three times
as much work a? the meanest and most ill-paid of his employes—and does his
worli cease when success crowns Ills efforts? ( N'o! While It means hard work
to gain success, It is none the less hard work to keep it!
I -could cite thousands of living examples of this living truth—success
tvoi work, and work means successl