UNDER

THE TENDRIL'S FATE.

NDER the snow in the dark and the cold, A pale little sprout was humming; Sweetly it sang, 'neath the frozen mold,

Of the beautiful days that were coming.

"How foolish your songs," said a lump of clay,
"What is there, I ask, to prove them?
Just look at the walls between you and the day,
Now, have you the strength to move them?"’

But under the ice and under the snow
The pale little sprout kept singing,
"I cannot tell how, but I know, I know,
I know what the days are bringing.

"Birds, and blossoms, and buzzing bees,
Blue, blue skies above me,

Bloom on the meadows and buds on the trees,
And the great glad sun to love me."

A pebble spoke next: "You are quite absurd,'
It said, "with your song's insistence;

For I never saw a tree or a bird,

So of course there are none in existence."

"But I know, I know," the tendril cried, In beautiful sweet unreason;

Till lo! from its prison, glorified,

It burst in the glad spring season.

THE TIMES.

HE times are not degenerate.

TH

Man's faith

Mounts higher than of old. No crumbling creed

Can take from the immortal soul the need

Of that supreme Creator, God. The wraith Of dead beliefs we cherished in our youth Fades but to let us welcome new-born Truth.

Man may not worship at the ancient shrine
Prone on his face, in self-accusing scorn.
That night is past. He hails a fairer morn,

And knows himself a something all divine;
No humble worm whose heritage is sin,
But, born of God, he feels the Christ within.

Not loud his prayers, as in the olden time, But deep his reverence for that mighty force, That occult working of the great All-Source,

Which makes the present era so sublime. Religion now means something high and broad, And man stood never half so near to God.

THE QUESTION.

ESIDE us in our seeking after pleasures,

B Through all our restless striving after fame,

Through all our search for worldly gains and

reasures,

There walketh one whom no man likes to name. Silent he follows, veiled of form and feature, Indifferent if we sorrow or rejoice,

Yet that day comes when every living creature
Must look upon his face and hear his voice.

When that day comes to you, and Death. unmasking,

Shall bar your path, and say, "Behold the end," What are the questions that he will be asking

About your past? Have you considered, friend? I think he will not chide you for your sinning, Nor for your creeds or dogmas will he care; He will but ask, "From your life's first beginning How many burdens have you helped to bear?"

SORROW'S USES.

HE uses of sorrow I comprehend

TH

Better and better at each year's end.

Deeper and deeper I seem to see

Why and wherefore it has to be.

Only after the dark, wet days

Do we fully rejoice in the sun's bright rays.

Sweeter the crust tastes after the fast
Than the sated gourmand's finest repast.

The faintest cheer sounds never amiss
To the actor who once has heard a hiss.

To one who the sadness of freedom knows, Light seem the fetters love may impose.

And he who has dwelt with his heart alone,
Hears all the music in friendship's tone.

So better and better I comprehend
How sorrow ever would be our friend.

T

IF.

WIXT what thou art, and what thou wouldst

be, let

No "If" arise on which to lay the blame.
Man makes a mountain of that puny word,
But, like a blade of grass before the scythe,
It falls and withers when a human will,

Stirred by creative force, sweeps toward its aim.

Thou wilt be what thou couldst be. Circumstance
Is but the toy of genius. When a soul
Burns with a god-like purpose to achieve,
All obstacles between it and its goal
Must vanish as the dew before the sun.

"If" is the motto of the dilettante
And idle dreamer; 'tis the poor excuse
Of mediocrity. The truly great

Know not the word, or know it but to scorn,
Else had Joan of Arc a peasant died,
Uncrowned by glory and by men unsung.