Yet, somewhere, somehow, in the years that shine With God's perfected wisdom throned above, I know thou wait'st my coming, with divine Enraptured welcomes of supremest love. IV. The Vision beckons, and I fix my gaze Unchanging to the promise of the skies: The full fruition of these lonely days Dwells in the heaven of thine angel eyes! V. What matter, Dear, though dullard thousands throng And jostle rudely at Life's holy feast? The dull ears hear no tender strains of Song, And they that know Love best know Love the least. VI. And still with yearning hands that longing grope And straining eyes that search to pierce the doom, I creep the path-ways of my only Hope, And seek the Loved One passed beyond the Gloom! When the Dollar Pounds the Door. It's no matter how exclusive Men may be in social ways, And how uppishly their manners Every one of them displays: Born to home-spun or the purple, Very rich or very poor, They're at home to every caller When the Dollar pounds the door! They may dwell in stately mansions With extensive yards and grounds; They may run their automobiles And play golf through all the rounds; But within their mountain villas Or resorts by ocean shore, They're at home to every caller When the Dollar pounds the door. Whether in the humble station Or the mighty seats of state, Eating crusts to banish hunger Or a-feast on fruits of fate,-- There's no one who's found forgetting That great lesson taught of yore, For they're home to every caller When the Dollar pounds the door. Mister Dollar, Mister Dollar! You have such a winning way, That I'd like you in the fam'ly Every hour of every day! And no matter where I'm staying, Please break in with rush and roar For I'm always glad to see you, Mr. Dollar, at the door? The Kingbolt Philosopher. "I've wunder'd through this vale of sunshine for about sev'nty years," said Uncle Ezra Mudge, as he filled his Missouri meerschaum for the twentieth time, "an' I never yit seen a feller thet amounted to shucks who wuz allus a-hangin' on to someone else. The pore soul thet hain't got enough git up an' git to him to strike out fer hisself an' find a path of his own through the woods is mighty nigh sartin to git lost in the brush. "Purty nigh ev'ry feller I ever knowed thet did anything wuth while did it by usin' the climbers on his own legs. Ef he stan's 'round waitin' to borry somebody else's tools, he wastes a mighty sight of his own time an' don't know how to use 'em when the other feller gits ready to be accommedatin'!" Don't You Grumble. I.