Cleon sees no charm in nature, in a daisy I;
  Cleon hears no anthems ringing in the sea and sky;
  Nature sings to me forever, earnest listener I;
  State for state, with all attendants, who would change? 
      Not I.

Charles Mackay.

THE PESSIMIST

Most of our ills and troubles are not very serious when we come to examine the realities of them.  Or perhaps we expect too much.  An old negro was complaining that the railroad would not pay him for his mule, which it had killed—­nay, would not even give him back his rope.  “What rope?” he was asked.  “Why, sah,” answered he, “de rope dat I tied de mule on de track wif.”

  Nothing to do but work,
    Nothing to eat but food,
  Nothing to wear but clothes
    To keep one from going nude.

  Nothing to breathe but air
    Quick as a flash ’tis gone;
  Nowhere to fall but off,
    Nowhere to stand but on.

  Nothing to comb but hair,
    Nowhere to sleep but in bed,
  Nothing to weep but tears,
    Nothing to bury but dead.

  Nothing to sing but songs,
    Ah, well, alas! alack! 
  Nowhere to go but out,
    Nowhere to come but back.

  Nothing to see but sights,
    Nothing to quench but thirst,
  Nothing to have but what we’ve got;
    Thus thro’ life we are cursed.

  Nothing to strike but a gait;
    Everything moves that goes. 
  Nothing at all but common sense
    Can ever withstand these woes.

Ben King.

From “Ben King’s Verse.”

A PROBLEM TO BE SOLVED

There are irritating, troublesome people about us.  Of what use is it to be irritating in our turn or to add to the trouble?  Most offenders have their better side.  Our wisest course is to find this and upon the basis of it build up a better relationship.

    There’s a fellow in your office
  Who complains and carps and whines
  Till you’d almost do a favor
  To his heirs and his assigns. 
  But I’ll tip you to a secret
  (And this chap’s of course involved)—­
  He’s no foeman to be fought with;
  He’s a problem to be solved.

    There’s a duffer in your district
  Whose sheer cussedness is such
  He has neither pride nor manners—­
  No, nor gumption, overmuch. 
  ’Twould be great to up and tell him
  Where to go.  But be resolved—­
  He’s no foeman to be fought with,
  Just a problem to be solved.

    This old earth’s (I’m sometimes thinking)
  One menagerie of freaks—­
  Folks invested with abnormal
  Lungs or brains or galls or beaks. 
  But we’re not just shrieking monkeys
  In a dim, vast cage revolved;
  We’re not foemen to be fought with,
  Merely problems to be solved.