Neither king nor kaiser Down in Mexico, Are the people wiser? Echo answers, "No!" There, contending factions Murder, pillage, burn; Plunder and exactions Everywhere you turn. Has the world gone crazy? Are the men all fools? Is our thinking hazy, Spite of all our schools? THE TREES The wind that through the forest blows May scatter leaves and blossoms wide. The parent tree but firmer grows When by the tempest torn and tried. The stately oak withstands the storm That rocks its boughs in fiercest strife; The winds that shake its sturdy form But give a deeper, stronger life. The maple leaves are falling fast, The sugar groves look gaunt and grim, But sap will flow when winter's past, And sweetness course through every limb. The mighty eucalyptus tree But sheds its bark at winter's call Its leaves retain their greenery, And yield a curing oil for all. A seedling in the Maori's time, Now, toughened by a thousand gales, Straight stands the kauri in its prime, Fit mast for proudest ship that sails. Drooping its weary fronds, the palm In sorrow stands on sun-baked plain Till comes, like blessed healing balm, The early and the latter rain. The noble banyan dying lives, In youth 'twould shield a single man, In age its spreading shelter gives Shade for a prince's caravan. No weaklings these, their roots deep down In Mother Earth retain their hold. To heaven they raise a leafy crown, Sound-hearted, loyal, earnest-souled. WHO KNOWS =The pessimist= Our lot is cast in evil days We almost lose our faith in God, We cannot comprehend His ways, Nor recognize His chast'ning rod. To stem the Hun's relentless tread, His hymns of hate, his crimes of Cain We give our daily toll of dead, But wonder if 'tis all in vain. =The Optimist= Brave men must fight, brave men must fall, Whene'er a tyrant lifts his head; When Freedom sounds her battle call, We must not grudge our noble dead. E'en now the victor's shouts we hear, On blood bought hill, o'er shell-swept plain; The end of tyranny is near, Our struggle has not been in vain. =The Socialist= If, when our cheering shall have died, No more for sordid grain we plan, But shed the hoofs and horns of pride, And strive to help our fellow man, So each will get a fair return For labor done by hand or brain And none can take what others earn; The war will not have been in vain. =The Anarchist=