’Mongst life’s sunny highlands I have strayed, Shunning Mammon’s vale of shade; And while wandering I’ve been pondering, And I feel, As onward toward the tomb I steal, That all our worldly toys, and troubles, are unreal. Riches is a doubtful chattel, Titles merely childish prattle; Sorrow is illogical, demoniacal dreaming. Joy and Hope alone are real--death is only but in seeming. For gladness, then--for better life we ever should be scheming. Fame holds forth for us a false, illusionary flower. Build, Folly! Build thy tower! Canst thou evade the inevitable hour? Toil, Pharoah, toil! Thy doom To build a pyramid--thy tomb! _SUNDRY SWEETS_ Oh, oh, how I love to plant the tender tree! What tho’ it bear no fruits for me? Its shady boughs, its leafy greenery, Its balmy, budding youthful gladness Will cheer me when in age and sadness. “Hah, there!” A nice little girl just sauntered by; I smiled at her, she smiled at me, And now we both are smiling, don’t you see? Whoopla--ha! ha! What a picnic! A lady just kissed me at the train. (But it wasn’t meant for me!) “How strange!” you say, “how very queer?” (Oh, she mistook me for her hubby dear,) Who signaled her, and yelled in vain. Observing tourists thought he’d gone insane. Yes, I enjoyed it more than he, That kiss that wasn’t meant for me. Now that I’ve made my little fortune, I have lots of fun,-- There’s not a thing I miss. I am so glad, I am so gay; If Psyche throw my love away, If I “fall out” with Chloris I will, I will be merry still. A smile, a smile,-- Have I not won a smile, A smile from charming little Doris? _FELICITOUS RETROFLECTIONS_ Tho’ this life may have its many thousand ills And nameless woes--and the gait or the grind kills-- Yet with all this, “this life it is most jolly”; What folly to consort, then, with Care and Melancholy! Petty troubles should not grieve thee, Of thy happy dreams bereave thee. Faint of heart--cark was a “quitter” ever. Undaunted cheer kept bravely on! Stop not to brood o’er failures--never,--never! Almost defeated “Trojans” have oft the battle won. Sharpest thorns among red roses; Bitter rind sweet fruit encloses, And a pinching, pestering torment teaches this:-- Vanquished sorrow adds greater zest to bliss! _LITTLE LOVE A-FISHING WENT_ On a hot summer day--alack the day! Little Love a-fishing went. To the “river cool,” he took his way, And there met Beauty gay,--by accident. Of knotted twine, Love made a line, For a hook a pin he bent; And this “tackle,” he thought fine, That never cost him a red cent.