But to be a scrubwoman, with four Babies, or more, Every day, every day setting your back On the rack, And all your reward forever not quite A full bite Of bread for your babies. Say!

In the heat of the day You might be a hero to head a brigade, But a hero like her? I'm afraid! I'm afraid!

It might be very feasible to force a great reform, To saddle public pa.s.sion and to ride upon the storm; It might be somewhat simple to ignore the roar of wrath, Because a second shout broke out to cheer you on your path.

But he who, alone and unknown, is true To his view, Unswerved by the crush of the mutton-browed, Blatting crowd, Unwon by the flabby-brained, blinking ease Which he sees Throned and anointed. Say!

At the height of the fray, You might be the chosen to captain the throng: But to stand all alone? How long? How long?

CONSCIENCE PIANISSIMO.

You are honest as daylight. You're often a.s.sured That your word is as good as your note--unsecured.

We could trust you with millions unaudited, but---- (Tut, tut!

There is always a "but,"

So don't get excited,) I'm pained to perceive It is seldom I notice you grumble or grieve When the custom-house officer pockets your tip And pa.s.ses the contraband goods in your grip.

You would scorn to be shy on your ante, I'm certain, But skinning your Uncle you're rather expert in.

Well, I'm proud that no taint of the sort touches me.

(For I've never been over the water, you see.)

Your yardstick's a yard and your goods are all wool; Your bushel's four pecks and you measure it full.

You are proud of your business integrity, yet-- (Don't fret!

There is always a "yet,") I never have noticed a sign of distress, or Disturbance in you, when the upright a.s.sessor Has listed your property somewhere about Half what you would take were you selling it out.

You're as true to the world as the world to its axis, But you chuckle to swear off your personal taxes.

As for me, I would scorn to do any such thing, (Though I may have considered the question last spring.)

You have notions of right. You would count it a sin To cheat a blind billionaire out of a pin.

You have a contempt for a pettiness, still-- (Don't chill!

There is always a "still,") I never have noticed you storm with neglect Because the conductor had failed to collect, Or growl that the game wasn't run on the square When your boy in the high school paid only half fare.

The voice of your conscience is l.u.s.ty and audible, But a railroad--good heavens! why, that's only laudable.

Of course, _I_ am quite in a different cla.s.s; For me, it is painful to ride on a pa.s.s!

THE WORLD RUNS ON.

So many good people find fault with G.o.d, Tho' admitting He's doing the best He can, But still they consider it somewhat odd That He doesn't consult them concerning his plan, But the sun sinks down and the sun climbs back, And the world runs round and round its track.

Or they say G.o.d doesn't precisely steer This world in the way they think is best, And if He would listen to them, He'd veer A hair to the sou', sou'west by west.

But the world sails on and it never turns back And the Mariner never makes a tack.

Or the same folk pray "O, if Thou please, Dear G.o.d, be a little more circ.u.mspect; Thou knowest Thy worm who is on his knees Would not willingly charge thee with neglect, But O, if indeed Thou knowest all things, Why fittest Thou not Thy worm with wings?"

So many good people are quite inclined To favor G.o.d with their best advices, And consider they're something more than kind In helping Him out of critical crises.

But the world runs on, as it ran before, And eternally shall run evermore.

So many good people, like you and me, Are deeply concerned for the sins of others And conceive it their duty that G.o.d should be Apprised of the lack in erring brothers.

And the myriad sun-stars seed the skies And look at us out of their calm, clear eyes.

Pa.s.s.

Did somebody give you a pat on the back?

Pa.s.s it on!

Let somebody else have a taste of the snack, Pa.s.s it on!

If it heightens your courage, or lightens your pack, If it kisses your soul, with a song in the smack, Maybe somebody else has been dressing in black; Pa.s.s it on!

G.o.d gives you a smile, not to make it a yawn; Pa.s.s it on!

Did somebody show you a slanderous mess?

Pa.s.s it by!

When a brook's flowing by, will you drink at the cess?

Pa.s.s it by!

Dame Gossip's a wanton, whatever her dress; Her sire was a lie and her dam was a guess, And a poison is in her polluting caress; Pa.s.s it by!

Unless you're a porker, keep out of the sty.

Pa.s.s it by!

Did somebody give you an insolent word?

Pa.s.s it up!

'T is the creak of a cricket, the pwit of a bird; Pa.s.s it up!

Shake your fist at the sea! Is its majesty blurred?

Blow your breath at the sky! Is its purity slurred?

But the shallowest puddle, how easily stirred!

Pa.s.s it up!

Does the puddle invite you to dip in your cup?

Pa.s.s it up!

PUBLICITY.

There's nothing like publicity To further that lubricity Which minted cartwheels need To maximize their speed In your direction.

True, some hydropathist of stocks, Or one whose trade is picking locks, May make objection: Yet even those gentry always lurk Where booming first has done its work.

Observe how oft some foreigner, About the size of coroner, Can sell L O R D (Four letters, as you see,) For seven numbers, Because his trade-mark, thus devised, Is advertised and advertised Till it enc.u.mbers The mental view, as though 't were some Bald-headed brand of chewing-gum.

Study your own psychology!

See how some mere tautology Of picture, or of print, Has realized the glint Of your good money.

How often have persistent views Of one bare head sold you your shoes!

Which does seem funny; And yet 'twas head-work, after all, Which helped the shoe-man make his haul.