DOWN AND OUT
MISFORTUNE punched you in the neck, and knocked you down and tramped you under; will you survey the gloomy wreck, and stand around and weep, I wonder? Your hold upon success has slipped, and still you ought to bob up grinning; for when a man admits he’s whipped, he throws away his chance of winning. I like to think of John Paul Jones, whose ship was split from truck to fender; the British asked, in blawsted tones, if he was ready to surrender. The Yankee mariner replied, “Our ship is sinking at this writing, but don’t begin to put on side—for we have just begun our fighting!” There is a motto, luckless lad, that you should paste inside your bonnet; when this old world seems stern and sad, with nothing but some Jonahs on it, don’t murmur in a futile way, about misfortune, bleak and biting, but gird your well known loins and say, “Great Scott! I’ve just begun my fighting!” The man who won’t admit he’s licked is bound to win a triumph shining, and all the lemons will be picked by weak-kneed fellows, fond of whining.
“CHARGE IT”
“JUST chalk it down,” the poor man said, when he had bought some boneless bread, and many costly things, his wife and brood of bairns to feed—the most of which they didn’t need as much as you need wings. He buys the richest things in town, and always says, “Just chalk it down, I’ll pay you soon, you bet;” and payday evening finds him broke, his hard earned plunks gone up in smoke, and still he is in debt. The man who doesn’t buy for cash lays in all kinds of costly trash, that he could do without; he spends his coin before it’s earned, and roars about it when it’s burned—is that your way, old scout? When comes the day of evil luck the war bag doesn’t hold a buck to keep the wolf away; the “charge it” plan will work no more at any market, shop, or store—no goods unless you pay. The poor man for his money sweats, and he should pay for what he gets, just when he gets the same; then, when he goes his prunes to buy, and sees how fast the nickels fly, he’ll dodge the spendthrift game. If you begin to save your stamps, some day, with teardrops in your lamps, this writer you will thank; when man in grief and sickness groans there’s naught like having fifteen bones in some good savings bank.
THE CROAKER
THERE is a man—you know him well; in every village doth he dwell—who all the time and every day can dig up something sad to say. The good, the beautiful, the fine, the things that others think divine, remind him that all flesh is grass, that all things must decay and pass. He shakes his head and wags his ears and sheds all kinds of briny tears and cries, “Alack and wella-day! All flesh is grass, and grass is hay!”