The road to hell, they assure me,
  With good intentions is paved;
  And I know my desires are noble,
  But my deeds might brand me depraved. 
  It’s the warped grain in our nature,
  And St. Paul has written it true: 
  “The good that I would I do not;
  But the evil I would not I do.”

  I’ve met few men who are monsters
  When I came to know them inside;
  Yet their bearing and dealings external
  Are crusted with cruelty, pride,
  Scorn, selfishness, envy, indifference,
  Greed—­why the long list pursue? 
  The good that they would they do not;
  But the evil they would not they do.

  Intentions may still leave us beast-like;
  With unchangeable purpose we’re men. 
  We must drive the nail home—­and then clinch it
  Or storms shake it loose again. 
  In things of great import, in trifles,
  We our recreant souls must subdue
  Till the evil we would not we do not
  And the good that we would we do.

St. Clair Adams.

PHILOSOPHY FOR CROAKERS

Many people seem to get pleasure in seeing all the bad there is, and in making everything about them gloomy.  They are like the old woman who on being asked how her health was, replied:  “Thank the Lord, I’m poorly.”

  Some folks git a heap o’ pleasure
    Out o’ lookin’ glum;
  Hoard their cares like it was treasure—­
    Fear they won’t have some. 
  Wear black border on their spirit;
    Hang their hopes with crape;
  Future’s gloomy and they fear it,
    Sure there’s no escape.

        Now there ain’t no use of whining
          Weightin’ joy with lead;
        There is silver in the linin’
          Somewhere on ahead.

  Can’t enjoy the sun to-day—­
    It may rain to-morrow;
  When a pain won’t come their way,
    Future pains they borrow. 
  If there’s good news to be heard,
    Ears are stuffed with cotton;
  Evils dire are oft inferred;
    Good is all forgotten.

        When upon a peel I stand,
          Slippin’ like a goner,
        Luck, I trust, will shake my hand
          Just around the corner.

  Keep a scarecrow in the yard,
    Fierce old bulldog near ’em;
  Chase off joy that’s tryin’ hard
    To come in an’ cheer ’em. 
  Wear their blinders big and strong,
    Dodge each happy sight;
  Like to keep their faces long;
    Think the day is night.

        Now I’ve had my share of trouble;
          Back been bent with ill;
        Big load makes the joy seem double
          When I mount the hill.

  Got the toothache in their soul;
    Corns upon their feelin’s;
  Get their share but want the whole,
    Say it’s crooked dealings. 
  Natures steeped in indigo;
    Got their joy-wires crossed;
  Swear it’s only weeds that grow;
    Flowers always lost.