376 MORE POT-POURRI 



the man who goes out to his work along the road — every 

 little incident seems to be full both of the poetry and 

 pathos of life. In a tiny volume lately published, of 

 remarkable verse by A. B., 'Earth Breath and other 

 Poems,' the poem called 'Morning' expresses in part 

 my feeling : 



We had the sense of twilight round us ; 



The orange dawn lights fluttered by; 

 And thrilling through the spell that bound us 



We heard the world's awakening cry. 



We felt the dim appeal of sorrow 



Rolled outward from its quiet breath, 



To waken to the burdened morrow, 

 The toil for life, the tears for death. 



And out of all old pain and longing 

 The truer love woke with the light. 



We saw the evil shadows thronging, 

 And went as warriors to the fight. 



The last line is to me an especially true note. Indif- 

 ference, blindness, despondency, all these I hate ; but 

 to meet life with courage, both for oneself and others, 

 that must be the real aim. But courage is rather 

 strength than happiness. 



Professor Blackie said somewhere, ' There is nothing 

 fills me with more sorrow occasionally than to see how 

 foolishly some people throw away their lives. It is a 

 noble thing to live ; at least, a splendid chance of play- 

 ing a significant game — a game which we may never 

 have the chance to play again, and which is surely 

 worth while to try to play skilfully ; to bestow at least 

 as much pains upon it as many a one does on billiards 

 or lawn tennis. But these pains are certainly not 

 always given, and so the game of life is lost, and the 

 grand chance of forming a manly character is gone, for 

 no man can play a game well who leaves his moves to 



