File:How to be happy (1901) (14741365786).jpg

Identifier: howtobehappy00f (find matches)
Title: How to be happy
Year: 1901 (1900s)
Authors: (Frink, Maria Mrs.) (from old catalog)
Subjects: Conduct of life
Publisher: Valparaiso, Ind., F. & M. Frink
Contributing Library: The Library of Congress
Digitizing Sponsor: The Library of Congress

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the dusty roadside trees. Some spitting kittens, maybe, in the grass. — Charlotte Perkins Stetson. 108 HP tf1GH. SIM high, my boy, and strive to climbThe heights where heroes stand,t^ Whose purposes were all sublime,And aspirations grand. Each heros life, a lesson is, And if you read it well,It gives you help and strength, and this Is what it has to tell. Be true; be earnest for the right In every time and place;Toward high endeavors beacon light Set steadfastly your face. Be brave of heart; if sore defeat Oertake you in the way,.Then with fresh zeal and courage meet The foe another day. The great men of the world are those Who swerved not left nor rightWhen base, ignoble men opposed, But kept the goal in sight! Though baffled, beaten for a time, From each defeat we gainA strength that makes the strife sublime, And takes away its pain. Be brave, be steadfast, and be true; And ever, as you climb,Keep Gods clear beacon light in view, And win, in His good time. — Eben E. Pexford. IO9
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A NOBLE BOY* p HBfHERES something in a noble boy,^fffe A brave, free-hearted, careless one,^p With his unchecked, unbidden joy, His dread of books and love of fun;And in his clear and ready smile,Unshaded by a thought of guile; And unrepressed by sadness —Which brings me to my childhood back,As if I trod its very track, And felt its very gladness. And yet it is not in his play, When every trace of thought is lost,And not when you would call him gay, That his bright presence thrills me most.His shout may ring upon the hill, His voice be echoed in the hall,His merry laugh like music thrill, And I in sadness hear it all —For like the wrinkles on my brow,I scarcely notice such things now. But when, amid the earnest game, He stops, as if he music heard,And, heedless of his shouted name As of the carol of a bird,Stands gazing on the empty air,As if some dream were passing there, Tis then that on his face I look —His beautiful but thoughtful face — And, like a long forgotten book,Its

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