The Kansas Fraternal Citizen from Valley Falls, Kansas • 8

A PAGE OF POETRY WHY AND WHEREFORE. THE HOME ABOVE THE LITTLE CORNER STORE. SIGNS. JUST AS YOU ARE Just as you are, no change for me, Truehearted friend. I like the faults that others see, We don't pretend That life is much beside a dream And things are not the way they seem.

Just as you are, I do not ask Perfection, no. I only want to see the task That tries you so; And aid you in It to the lust, And ward from you life's tempest blast, Just as you are; change not your voice, Nor yet your smile, Both make me constantly rejoice, Linger a while And let me see again those eyes That make' me strong to silence sighs. To your virtue 1 would not add; Yours doth suffice, Example fair to make all glad, At any price. I'll try to emulate your grace, In your heart find my resting place, I'd change you not; to Time leave all. Too soon, alus.

The stage be dark, the curtain fall, The actors pass, And I will know, to my distress, Not e'en your faults can I possess. Nathaniel Ferguson. A PRAYER Folks there are who figure weather By the signs Of the goose bone or the feather. Or the vines. If the atmosphere should quiver They can feel it in their liver, And they're sure to get a shiver Up their spines.

When they see a circle dancing Round the moon. Or a brace of sun dogs prancing Just at noon, Or if Venus or the dipper Has a fit and turns a flipper Then we're sure to get a ripper Pretty soon. When they feel the wintry breezes Start to blow They will have a dozen sneezes In a row. And they'll say: "There's nothing to it; I just know I can't live through it; I am sure to die, I knew it Long aco." Gloom and trouble hold the center Of the play, Optimism doesn't enter In the fray; Our calamity forecaster, With his almanac as mpster, Dishes up some new disaster Kvery day. If a whizzing gale should clatter, Let 'er whiz, Let us learn to smile, no matter it is.

Say to every goose-bone wizard; "Bless your pessimistic gizzard, If the good Loid sen da 'a blizzard, Let 'er bliz. Chicago Record-Herald i A TRIBUTE TO Back of the beating By which the steel Back of the workshop's The seeker may find Thv Ti ought that is Of iron and steam That rises above And tramples it The drudge may fret Or labor with dusty But back of him stands The clear-eyed nnn For into each plow Each piece and part Must go the Brains Which gives the Back of the motor's Back of the belts Back of -the hammer's Back of the cranes There is the eye which Watching through There is the Mind Back of the brawn, Might of the roaring Force of the engine's Strength of the Greatly in these we But back of them The thinker who Back of the Job the Who's making the Berton Braley, in hammer is wrought clamor the Thought, ever master and steel, disaster under heel! and tinker blows, the Thinker, who Knows; sabre and whole, of Labor work a soul! I know not whence I came, I know not whither I go, But the fact stands clear That I am here In this world of pleasure and woe And out of the mist and murk Another truth shines plain-It is in my power Each day and hour To add to its joy or its pain. I know that the earth exists, It is none of my business why, I cannot find out What it's all about I would but waste time to try, My life is a brief, brief thing. 1 am here for a little space And while 1 stay I would like, if I may, To brighten and better the place. The trouble, I think, with us all Is the lack of a high conceit; If each man thought He was sent to the spot To make it a bit more sweet, How soon we could gladden the world, How easily right all wrong, If nobody shirked And each one worked To help his fellows along.

Cease wondering why you came; Stop looking for faults and flaws; Rise up to-day in your pride and say; "I am part of the first great cause However full the world. There is room for an earnest man; It had need of me Or I would not be 1 am here to strengthen the plan. xila Wheeler Wilcox. THE DREAMER DOUBT. Tired? So am Let's rest.

Stop preparing for the worst; Get ready for the best, I fear that most of us are curst With a too persistent zest At counting o'er the ills of life For getting all the rest. Disappointed? So am I. My plans have come to naught. And success has passed me by, Nor given me a thought, But no tear shall dim my eye Till the battle has been fought To a finish live or die. Heartbroken? No, you're not.

You've too many blessings still, That you know cannot be bought, See the good forget the ill-Joys that come to us unsought, And abide with us until We leave this earth-worn spot. 0, doubter, Lift your eyes From your little selfish gloom, Beneath the wide blue skies, 0 see you not there's room For all the hopes you prize Some time, somewhere to bloom? Stop doubting and grow wise. -Cora Greenleaf, In Detroit Free Press. (Paul L. McKenrick, Kentuckian.) in The Illustrated My year is done; the books, with flatt'ring voice, Tell me I'm rich yet I cannot rejoice.

This massive marble pile, this countless gold, Seem worthless dirt for which my life Is sold. How gladly would I give it all, to bring Once more into my heart its flow'ry spring To feel the thrill of happiness again. That I so well remember. It was when Louise was with me, and could wealth but buy The past, all mine I'd yield without a sigh, To have, enjoy in hopeful love once more, Our home above the little corner store. How poor we were: But what is poverty To youthful hearts that love devotedly? How hard we worked, and planned, and schemed, To realize the things our hope had dreamed, In every thought and action each had share; Life was to us a partnership affair.

For each invested one true loving heart, And bore of loss and gain an equal part, Not equal, no, for every loss and pain, Each craved to give the other joy and gain The croaking bird of self ne'er hovered o'er The home above the little corner store. When trade was dull and creditors severe. I'd walk back to the stairs, and wait to hear Her sing of faith and hope, and when she'd sung I thought it was an angel's heavenly tongue To guide me through each dark financial flood, 'Twas strange how perfectly she understood. When I'd deplore of ever gaining ground, How gently would she draw my arm around Her waist, and laughingly make me confess This life to us had been a grand success-Then how much brighter grew than e'er before The home above the little corner store. Ofttimes those blissful days come back to me, When loneliness plods on too wearily.

And mem'ry brings Louise in spirit here, To change this tomb into that home so dear I hear her speak of tasks throughout the day. And tell how sad she feels when I'm away. The flowers in her hair, her neat attire-How proud I was that I should them inspire; She'd often take my hand between her two. And say, "I'm hap-- if I just please you." I kissed her when we parted at the door At home above the little corner store. Like music borne away on summer's breeze, From out this lower life passed my Louise; But in my heart still lives her beauteous love, To comfort while along earth's course I move.

Successful, famous now I'm called, but, oh. My desolation none can ever know. Last night I sat before my fire and dreamed 1 was not old and rich all changed I seemed I heard her laughter, then a rustling near, And ou my check I started, 'twas a tear. That whispered as it ran, "No, nevermore, The home above the little corner store." A TANGODE. (More spineless and rambling than any classical model extant, with the responsibility of the Coleridge estate sobbing itself out with the first stanza.) In Castle House did Lizzie M.

A stately pleasure dome decree, Where Irots and tangos gaily ran Through mazes measureless to man, With penances of tea. So twice ten yards of hardwood floor With soothing wax was sprinkled o'er; And there were chaperons to keep things proper, To watch the dainty debutante and stop her From daring dips. Two dollars was the foe. Meanwhile the daily papers Cut up all kinds of capers Anent the theme. (A few are editorial.) The Times would seem To strike most happpily the chord censorial.

It had a limerick Which wo to quote are quick; "Said the Reverend Jabez McCotton, "The walz of the devil's begotten. But made reply, 'Don't mind the old guy, To the pure almost everything's rotten." To aid Miss Marbury ran Rabbi Wise Towing Neweastleward the well-known coal For he who helps that lady advertise Expires with lily-gilding on his soul. Millions of moans for the maxixe. of tears for the trot. One Cuth lie priest says they're harm-loss, One Rabbi Wise says they're not.

Meanwhile the tardy tango guest Beats on his broad, white linen breast, He hears the loud bassoon Its syncopated strains drift down From every tearoom in the town On every afternoon. "What Cato did and Addison approved Cannot be wrong." This hit some man confided, Then promptly suicided. Likewise, When parents trot and children follow suit- Thus ends the song. Leola Leonard lo the N. Y.

'1 Thank God for life. Even though it brings much bitterness and strife And all our fairest dreams are wrecked and lost. Even though there is more ill than good in life, We cling to life arid reckon not the cost. Thank God for life. Thank God for love, For, though sometimes grief follows in its wake, Still, we forget love's sorrow in love joy And cherish tears with smiles for love's 8YV(ft 8fl Only in heaven is bliss without alloy.

Thank God for love, Thank God for pain, No tear hath ever yet been shed in vain, And in the end each sorrowing heart shall find No curse, but blessings, in the hand of pain, Even when He smiteth, then Cod is most kind. Thank God for pain, Thank God for Who touches anguished lips an- stills tho bicatb And bringeth peace unto each tr 'eu breast, From which all grief hath flown? XT blessed death! God's sweetest gift! Thy name in heaven is rest! Thank God for death. Marie Joussaye LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT (rubllslied by Request) Lend, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom Lead thou me on The night rs dark, and I am far from home, Lead thou me ou Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see The distant scene, one step for me, I was uot ever thus, nor prayed that ihou Shouldst lead me on I love to choose and see my path; but irow Lead thou me ou; I love the garish day, and, spite of fears, rrlde ruled my will; remember uot past years. So long thy power hath blest me, sure it Btill Will lead me on; O'er moor und feu, o'er crag and torrent, till The night is gone; And with the morn those angel faces smile Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. Amen.

Cardinal Newman. THE TINK WILD ROSE. An old log house in the pasture stands, Shattered, forsaken and brown, It's windows gone, its broken door And its doorstep tumbled down; But a spirit lingers near the spot With a sweet, old-time repose, For in tangled masses round nbout Blossoms the pink wild rose. I gather bunch of the fragrant flowers, And a picture seems to rise: I stand in the naRt a hundred years And Bee 'noath the sunset skies The housewife stnnd by her spinning wheel Tolling at twilight's close; An old brown Jar on the window sill Is filled with the pink wild rose. The husband sits on the doorstep there, With the children playing near-Ami then time marches with silent tread Till it passes year by year, And the old loghouse deserted is, A prey to the rains and snows, While the only voice of the days gone by Is the voice of the pink wild rose.

Viek'a Magazine. A reputation that has been patched, may look well enough for a while, but It seldom wears well and the stitches are liable to break most any time. Grldley Light. humming, that sing, drumming, that swing, scans them stress and strain, which plans them the Brain! boiler, thrust, sweating toiler, trust, stands the Schemer drives things through Dreamer dream come true! American Machinist. THE BUILDING OF THE NEST They'll come again to the apple tree, IJobln and 1he rest, When the orchard branches arc fair to see In the snow of the blossoms drest; And the prettiest thing in the world will be The building of the nest.

Wf paving it well, so round and trim, Hollowing It with care; Nothing too far away for him, Nothing, for her to fair-Hanging it safe in the topmost limb, Their castle in the air. Ah. mother bird you'll have weary days When the eggs are under your breast, And shadows may darken -the dancing rays, When the fledgings leave the nest, But they'll find their wings in a glad amaze And God will see to the rest. So come to the trees with nil your train When the apple blossoms blow, Through the April shimmer or sun and rain Go flying to and fro; And sing to our hearts as we watch again Your fairy building grow. Margaret E.

Sangster 1.