Somebody said he’d done it well,
  And presto! his head began to swell;
  Bigger and bigger the poor thing grew—­
  A wonder it didn’t split in two. 
  In size a balloon could scarcely match it;
  He needed a fishing-pole to scratch it;—–­
  But six and a half was the size of his hat,
  And it rattled around on his head at that!

  “Good work,” somebody chanced to say,
  And his chest swelled big as a load of hay. 
  About himself, like a rooster, he crowed;
  Of his wonderful work he bragged and blowed
  He marched around with a peacock strut;
  Gigantic to him was the figure he cut;—­
  But he wore a very small-sized suit,
  And loosely it hung on him, to boot!

  HE was the chap who made things hum! 
  HE was the drumstick and the drum! 
  HE was the shirt bosom and the starch! 
  HE was the keystone in the arch! 
  HE was the axis of the earth! 
  Nothing existed before his birth! 
  But when he was off from work a
  Nobody knew that he was away!

  This is a fact that is sad to tell: 
  It’s the empty head that is bound to swell;
  It’s the light-weight fellow who soars to the skies
  And bursts like a bubble before your eyes. 
  A big man is humbled by honest praise,
  And tries to think of all the ways
  To improve his work and do it well;—­
  But a little man starts of himself to yell!

Joseph Morris:

CARES

To those who are wearied, fretted, and worried there is no physician like nature.  When our nerves are frazzled and our sleep is unrefreshing, we can find no better antidote to the clamorous grind and frenzy of the city than the stillness and solitude of hills, streams, and tranquil stars.  That man lays up for himself resources of strength who now and then exchanges the ledger for green leaves, the factory for wild flowers, business for brook-croon and bird-song.

  The little cares that fretted me,
    I lost them yesterday
  Among the fields above the sea,
    Among the winds at play;
  Among the lowing of the herds,
    The rustling of the trees,
  Among the singing of the birds,
    The humming of the bees.

  The foolish fears of what may happen,
    I cast them all away
  Among the clover-scented grass,
    Among the new-mown hay;
  Among the husking of the corn
    Where drowsy poppies nod,
  Where ill thoughts die and good are born
    Out in the fields with God.

Elisabeth Barrett Browning.

FAITH

Any one who has ridden across the continent on a train must marvel at the faith and imagination of the engineers who constructed the road—­the topographical advantages seized, the grades made easy of ascent, the curves and straight stretches planned, the tunnels so carefully calculated that workmen beginning on opposite sides of a mountain met in the middle—­and all this visualized and thought out before the actual work was begun.  Faith has such foresight, such courage, whether it toils actively or can merely bide its time.