I quarrel not with Destiny, But make the best of everything-- The best is good enough for me.

Leave Discontent alone, and she Will shut her month and let _you_ sing.

I quarrel not with Destiny.

I take some things, or let 'em be-- Good gold has always got the ring; The best is good enough for me.

Since Fate insists on secrecy, I have no arguments to bring-- quarrel not with Destiny.

The fellow that goes "haw" for "gee"

Will find he hasn't got full swing.

The best is good enough for me.

One only knows our needs, and He Does all of the distributing.

I quarrel not with Destiny; The best is good enough for me.

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HONEY DRIPPING FROM THE COMB

How slight a thing may set one's fancy drifting Upon the dead sea of the Past!--A view-- Sometimes an odor--or a rooster lifting A far-off "_Ooh! ooh-ooh!_"

And suddenly we find ourselves astray In some wood's-pasture of the Long Ago-- Or idly dream again upon a day Of rest we used to know.

I bit an apple but a moment since-- A wilted apple that the worm had spurned.-- Yet hidden in the taste were happy hints Of good old days returned.--

And so my heart, like some enraptured lute, Tinkles a tune so tender and complete, G.o.d's blessing must be resting on the fruit-- So bitter, yet so sweet!

AS MY UNCLE USED TO SAY

I've thought a power on men and things, As my uncle ust to say,-- And ef folks don't work as they pray, i jings!

W'y, they ain't no use to pray!

Ef you want somepin', and jes dead-set A-pleadin' fer it with both eyes wet, And _tears_ won't bring it, w'y, you try _sweat_, As my uncle ust to say.

They's some don't know their A, B, C's, As my uncle ust to say, And yit don't waste no candle-grease, Ner whistle their lives away!

But ef they can't write no book, ner rhyme No singin' song fer to last all time, They can blaze the way fer the march sublime, As my uncle ust to say.

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Whoever's Foreman of all things here, As my uncle ust to say, He knows each job 'at we're best fit fer, And our round-up, night and day: And a-sizin' _His_ work, east and west, And north and south, and worst and best.

I ain't got nothin' to suggest, As my uncle ust to say.

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WE MUST BELIEVE

_"Lord, I believe: help Thou mine unbelief."_

We must believe-- Being from birth endowed with love and trust-- Born unto loving;--and how simply just That love--that faith!--even in the blossom-face The babe drops dreamward in its resting-place, Intuitively conscious of the sure Awakening to rapture ever pure And sweet and saintly as the mother's own, Or the awed father's, as his arms are thrown O'er wife and child, to round about them weave And wind and bind them as one harvest-sheaf Of love--to cleave to, and _forever_ cleave....

Lord, I believe: Help Thou mine unbelief.

We must believe-- Impelled since infancy to seek some clear Fulfillment, still withheld all seekers here;-- For never have we seen perfection nor The glory we are ever seeking for: But we _have_ seen--all mortal souls as one-- Have seen its _promise_, in the morning sun-- Its blest a.s.surance, in the stars of night;-- The ever-dawning of the dark to light;-- The tears down-falling from all eyes that grieve-- The eyes uplifting from all deeps of grief, Yearning for what at last we shall receive....

Lord, I believe: Help Thou mine unbelief.

We must believe-- For still all unappeased our hunger goes, From life's first waking, to its last repose: The briefest life of any babe, or man Outwearing even the allotted span, Is each a life unfinished--incomplete: For these, then, of th' outworn, or unworn feet Denied one toddling step--O there must be Some fair, green, flowery pathway endlessly Winding through lands Elysian! Lord, receive And lead each as Thine Own Child--even the Chief Of us who didst Immortal life achieve....

Lord, I believe: Help Thou mine unbelief.

A GOOD MAN

I

A good man never dies-- In worthy deed and prayer And helpful hands, and honest eyes, If smiles or tears be there: Who lives for you and me-- Lives for the world he tries To help--he lives eternally.

A good man never dies.

II

Who lives to bravely take His share of toil and stress, And, for his weaker fellows' sake, Makes every burden less,-- He may, at last, seem worn-- Lie fallen--hands and eyes Folded--yet, though we mourn and mourn, A good man never dies.

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THE OLD DAYS

The old days--the far days-- The overdear and fair!-- The old days--the lost days-- How lovely they were!

The old days of Morning, With the dew-drench on the flowers And apple-buds and blossoms Of those old days of ours.