Now it’s best to sing a song
          ‘Stead o’ sit and mourn;
        Rose you’ll find grows right along
          Bigger than the thorn.

  Beat the frogs the way they croak;
    See with goggles blue—­
  Universe is cracked or broke,
    ’Bout to split in two. 
  Think the world is full of sin,
    Soon go up the spout;
  Badness always movin’ in,
    Goodness movin’ out.

        But I’ve found folks good and kind,
          ’Cause I thought they would be;
        Most men try, at least I find,
          To be what they should be.

Joseph Morris.

THE FIGHTING FAILURE

“I’m not a rabid, preachy, pollyanna optimist.  Neither am I a gloomy grouch.  I believe in a loving Divine Providence Who expects you to play the Game to the limit, Who wants you to hold tight to His hand, and Who compensates you for the material losses by giving you the ability to retain your sense of values, and keep your spiritual sand out of the bearings of your physical machine, if you’ll trust and—­’Keep Sweet, Keep Cheerful, or else—­Keep Still’”—­Everard Jack Appleton.

He has come the way of the fighting men, and fought by the rules of the
          Game,
And out of Life he has gathered—­What?  A living,—­and little fame,
Ever and ever the Goal looms near,—­seeming each time worth while;
But ever it proves a mirage fair—­ever the grim gods smile. 
And so, with lips hard set and white, he buries the hope that is gone,—­
His fight is lost—­and he knows it is lost—­and yet he is fighting on.

Out of the smoke of the battle-line watching men win their way, And, cheering with those who cheer success, he enters again the fray, Licking the blood and the dust from his lips, wiping the sweat from his
          eyes,
He does the work he is set to do—­and “therein honor lies.”  Brave they were, these men he cheered,—­theirs is the winners’ thrill; His fight is lost—­and he knows it is lost—­and yet he is fighting still.

And those who won have rest and peace; and those who died have more;
But, weary and spent, he can not stop seeking the ultimate score;
Courage was theirs for a little time,—­but what of the man who sees
That he must lose, yet will not beg mercy upon his knees? 
Side by side with grim Defeat, he struggles at dusk or dawn,—­
His fight is lost—­and he knows it is lost—­and yet he is fighting on.

Praise for the warriors who succeed, and tears for the vanquished dead; The world will hold them close to her heart, wreathing each honored head, But there in the ranks, soul-sick, time-tried, he battles against the odds, Sans hope, but true to his colors torn, the plaything of the gods!  Uncover when he goes by, at last!  Held to his task by will The fight is lost—­and he knows it is lost—­and yet he is fighting still!