In battle or business, whatever the game, In law or love, it is ever the same; In the struggle for power, or the scramble for pelf, Let this be your motto, "RELY ON YOURSELF!" For, whether the prize be a ribbon or throne, The victor is he who can "go it alone!" JOHN G. SAXE. _PREJUDICE._ I was climbing up a mountain path, With many things to do, Important business of my own, And other people's too, When I ran against a Prejudice That quite cut off the view. My work was such as could not wait, My path quite clearly showed; My strength and time were limited; I carried quite a load, And there that bulking Prejudice Sat all along the road. So I spoke to him politely, For he was huge and high, And begged that he would move a bit, And let me travel by-- He smiled, but as for moving-- He didn't even try. And then I reasoned quietly With that colossal mule; The time was short, no other path, The mountain winds were cool-- I argued like a Solomon, He sat there like a fool. Then I flew into a passion, I danced and howled and swore; I pelted and belaboured him Till I was stiff and sore; He got as mad as I did-- But he sat there as before. And then I begged him on my knees-- I might be kneeling still, If so I hoped to move that mass Of obdurate ill-will-- As well invite the monument To vacate Bunker's Hill! So I sat before him helpless, In an ecstasy of woe-- The mountain mists were rising fast, The sun was sinking slow-- When a sudden inspiration came, As sudden winds do blow. I took my hat, I took my stick, My load I settled fair, I approached that awful incubus, With an absent-minded air-- And I walked directly through him, As if he wasn't there! CHARLOTTE PERKINS STETSON. _THE POOR AND THE RICH._ The rich man's son inherits lands, And piles of brick and stone and gold, And tender flesh that fears the cold, Nor dares to wear a garment old; A heritage, it seems to me, One would not care to hold in fee. The rich man's son inherits cares. The bank may break, the factory burn, Some breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft white hands would scarcely earn A living that would suit his turn; A heritage, it seems to me, One would not care to hold in fee. What does the poor man's son inherit? Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, A hardy frame, a hardier spirit, King of two hands he does his part In every useful toil and art; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.