It was your own Self saving you,
  Your Self no man has ever known,
  Looking on flesh and blood alone. 
  That Self that lives so close to God
  As roots that feed upon the sod. 
  That one who stands behind the screen,
  Looks through the window of your eyes—­
  A being out of Paradise. 
  The Self no human eye has seen,
  The living one who never tires,
  Fed by the deep eternal fires. 
  Your flaming Self, with two-edged sword,
  Made in the likeness of the Lord,
  Angel and guardian at the gate,
  Master of Death and King of Fate!

Angela Morgan.

From “The Hour Has Struck.”

JUST WHISTLE

There is a psychological benefit in the mere physical act of whistling.  When the body makes music, the spirit falls into harmonies too and the discords that assail us cease to make themselves heard.

  When times are bad an’ folks are sad
    An’ gloomy day by day,
  Jest try your best at lookin’ glad
    An’ whistle ’em away.

  Don’t mind how troubles bristle,
  Jest take a rose or thistle. 
    Hold your own
  An’ change your tone
  An’ whistle, whistle, whistle!

  A song is worth a world o’ sighs. 
    When red the lightnings play,
  Look for the rainbow in the skies
    An’ whistle ’em away.

  Don’t mind how troubles bristle,
  The rose comes with the thistle. 
    Hold your own
  An’ change your tone
  An’ whistle, whistle, whistle!

  Each day comes with a life that’s new,
    A strange, continued story
  But still beneath a bend o’ blue
    The world rolls on to glory.

  Don’t mind how troubles bristle,
  Jest take a rose or thistle. 
    Hold your own
  An’ change your tone
  An’ whistle, whistle, whistle!

Frank L. Stanton.

[Illustration:  GRANTLAND RICE]

“MIGHT HAVE BEEN”

“Yes, it’s pretty hard,” the optimistic old woman admitted.  “I have to get along with only two teeth, one in the upper jaw and one in the lower—­but thank God, they meet.”

  Here’s to “The days that might have been”;
    Here’s to “The life I might have led”;
  The fame I might have gathered in—­
    The glory ways I might have sped. 
  Great “Might Have Been,” I drink to you
    Upon a throne where thousands hail—­
  And then—­there looms another view—­
    I also “might have been” in jail.

  O “Land of Might Have Been,” we turn
    With aching hearts to where you wait;
  Where crimson fires of glory burn,
    And laurel crowns the guarding gate;
  We may not see across your fields
    The sightless skulls that knew their woe—­
  The broken spears—­the shattered shields—­
    That “might have been” as truly so.