They tell me it is not the style in these days so to write it. The proper thing, they say, is with a smirch of wrong to blight it, To leave the tears unwiped, the wrong unrighted, and the error Unbanished in the general reign of trouble and of terror. But I still have the faith to cling to childhood’s deep conviction That somehow justice does get done in life as well as fiction, That there is more of right than wrong, of pleasure than of weeping, And that a kindly Providence still has us in its keeping. I think when all the years are through the world’s heart will be singing, That bells of bounding happiness will everywhere be ringing, And the great Author of the tale of life, His mercy lending, Will bring the story of the world down to a happy ending. [Illustration of an armored knight riding a galloping horse and holding a woman seated in front of him. The knight’s right hand holds a long staff tipped with a small flag, while his left hand secures the woman. His cape flaps in the wind. The horse is dressed with coverings from head to hind quarters. They are centered in the frame with a billowing cloud rising behind them. The lower-right part of the frame has nearby vegetation. The upper-left part has a castle on a hill a small distance away. The artwork has a printed signature, but the stylized last letter of the last name is uncertain; an “R” would complete the name “Stanley Hunter.”] Have You Tried? (1929) Are you sure you cannot do it? Are you really satisfied That you never can go through it? Have you tried? Do a thousand doubts assail you With their darts from every side Till your hope and courage fail you? Have you tried? Have you ceased to dream of winning? Have your expectations died? Have you really had your inning? Have you tried? Memorial Day v1929 Exodus 12:14. “And this day shall be unto you for a memorial.” Their drums are still. Their banners all are furled. They feel no more the battle’s fiery breath. Theirs is the vastest army in the world, Encamped upon the silent fields of death. Of peace and happiness they paid the price. Their Via Dolorosa did they tread. They climbed the Calvary of sacrifice, And found a place among the mighty dead. The years roll on, but as they pass away Let not this tender memory grow old. By the sweet, smiling blossoms of the May Let their fair story be forever told. The Modern Pupil (1929) I’ve had a new school teacher Now for a week or two. She seems to be quite clever, And knows her subject, too. She’s pleasant and attractive, As far as I can tell. There’s just one trouble with her. She doesn’t mind me well. In fact, she has a notion, Saved from a former day, That things about the schoolroom Should go the other way. And so the one objection That any one could find Is insubordination. I cannot make her mind. My Little Fire (1929)