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In reckless mood have let the truth slip out, 

 And. told us what the Institute's about. 

 Its genealogies and dusty lore, 

 Its curious specimens of the days of yore, 

 Its dredging, delving, these are all a blind ; 

 There's something very different behind. 

 Perhaps for gravity it used to strive, 

 It studies jollity at twenty-five." 



So think the thoughtless, but the wiser sight 

 Sees other meaning in our mirth to night. 

 The hour of pleasure is the hour of rest, 

 That sends us back to work with keener zest. 

 So, when the factory bell, at evening time, 

 Rings out upon the air its welcome chime, 

 And, quick responsive to its clanging beat, 

 There comes the answer of a hundred feet, 

 The merry jest goes round, and cheerful word, 

 With happy laughter all the crowd is stirred. 

 Forgotten for a while the thunderous din 

 That roared and rattled in the worksJiop grim, 

 Tense nerves relax, gaunt want forgets its pain, 

 And childhood's dreams come drifting back again ; 

 The breath of country fields, the garden's sweets, 

 Seem to sift through the smoke of city streets ; 

 For one brief hour the present fades away, 

 While old time splendors glorify the day. 

 And then toil takes again its heavy load, 

 To travel on along the dusty road, 

 Renewed and gladdened by the restful change 

 That gave to hope and thought a wider range. 

 So here we stand to-night with bows unbent; 

 To-morrow sees us all on work intent. 

 And, as the mirthful moments fade away 

 Before the coming of the toilsome clay, 

 The earnest future, glowing in their light, 

 Brightens before our cheered and quickened sight. 



We look to-night a quarter century back, 

 And mark the lustre of the shining track 

 Left by the footsteps of illustrious sires, 

 Who kindled long ago these altar fires. 

 Amid the changes of a changing age 

 Decay's not written on our history's page. 



