I

  His hoss went dead an’ his mule went lame;
  He lost six cows in a poker game;
  A harricane came on a summer’s day,
  An’ carried the house whar’ he lived away;
  Then a airthquake come when that wuz gone,
  An’ swallered the lan’ that the house stood on! 
  An’ the tax collector, he come roun’
  An’ charged him up fer the hole in the groun’! 
  An’ the city marshal—­he come in view
  An’ said he wanted his street tax, too!

  II

  Did he moan an’ sigh?  Did he set an’ cry
  An’ cuss the harricane sweepin’ by? 
  Did he grieve that his ol’ friends failed to call
  When the airthquake come an’ swallered all? 
  Never a word o’ blame he said,
  With all them troubles on top his head! 
  Not him....  He clumb to the top o’ the hill—­
  Whar’ standin’ room wuz left him still,
  An’, barin’ his head, here’s what he said: 
  “I reckon it’s time to git up an’ git;
  But, Lord, I hain’t had the measels yit!”

Frank L. Stanton.

From “The Atlanta Constitution.”

THE TRAINERS

To Franklin, seeking recognition and aid for his country at the French court, came news of an American disaster.  “Howe has taken Philadelphia,” his opponents taunted him.  “Oh, no,” he answered, “Philadelphia has taken Howe.”  He shrewdly foresaw that the very magnitude of what the British had done would lull them into overconfidence and inaction, and would stir the Americans to more determined effort.  Above all, he himself was undisturbed; for to the strong-hearted, trials and reverses are instruments of final success.

  My name is Trouble—­I’m a busy bloke—­
    I am the test of Courage—­and of Class—­
  I bind the coward to a bitter yoke,
    I drive the craven from the crowning pass;
  Weaklings I crush before they come to fame;
    But as the red star guides across the night,
  I train the stalwart for a better game;
    I drive the brave into a harder fight.

  My name is Hard Luck—­the wrecker of rare dreams—­
    I follow all who seek the open fray;
  I am the shadow where the far light gleams
    For those who seek to know the open way;
  Quitters I break before they reach the crest,
    But where the red field echoes with the drums,
  I build the fighter for the final test
    And mold the brave for any drive that comes.

  My name is Sorrow—­I shall come to all
    To block the surfeit of an endless joy;
  Along the Sable Road I pay my call
    Before the sweetness of success can cloy;
  And weaker souls shall weep amid the throng
    And fall before me, broken and dismayed;
  But braver hearts shall know that I belong
    And take me in, serene and unafraid.