O, years of the strife and struggle! O, years of the wrath and wrong!
The hands of toil smote the sleeping fields and they woke with the blooms of light;
The homes we wrought are the homes of peace, where life is a tender song,
And the pleasures romp through the laughing days and the dreams go down the night!
Between the seas of the big, round world there never was such a land!
A land that walks in the paths of peace where the stars in their plenty shine;
And the fields are fair with the harvests there and the gifts of the toiler's hand,
And the fruit hangs red in the orchard trees and the grapes on the purple vine!
It is sixteen years since we ran the race, it is sixteen mighty years,
And the days have come and gone again, with the gifts that the strong men claim;
And after the days of the struggle, the grief and toil and tears,
The wilderness smiles in its beauty 'neath the stars of a wondrous fame.
Caught on the Fly.
The younger a bride, the sooner a grass widow.
Lilies are pretty, but the old fashioned potato sticks closer to the ribs.
A magnate and his money are different propositions to the missionary societies.