Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1890-10-29

his majority as well as the candidate who got
| there.
WHAT was your baby pursuit? mean what
profession. trade or calling did you select in the
mud-pie sand-shoveling, dust-delving, pinafore
periodf You didn't have anyf Why, that's
odd. Think, now sOver 60 the leaves back to
the Second Chapter-cradled babyhood the
First, you know; knee-breeched youth. Chap
ter Two. All, there you are, and on page one.
too. And what was it? Were you doctor or
a surgeonf With wise-looking eye did you give
pussie or Carlo their warm milk with the old
battered spoon, or with the velvety, thin
skinned hand of childhood did you bandage
kitty's lame limb or bathe doggy's bruised paw,
birdy's disabled wing or the old davis crushed
claw? Or were you a millwught? Did you
build great wheels from shingles, lath or thin
board, and turn tiny water course before
finally selecting site for the miniature mill?
Or were you an artist-coal-soiled, the old barn
your canvas, the disfigured fence palings your
pride and joy? Or were you carver-whit-
ting, whiting away, leaving trail of tiny
chips behind and nursing slashed finger
after every experiment. Or were you build
er of houses on sand Of castles on stone that
bruised your tiny fingers and tired your tender
muscles? Or were you a musician, drumming
on pans and window panes and footing shrlll
whistles until breath failed and lips tired: Or
were you a soldier bold, with sword of tin and
gun of wood, besashed and bloodthirsty? Or
were you a scholar, searching the big books be-
yond your KEN cropping in the dark for the light
beyond? Or were you an inventor, puzzling
your little brain over mechanisms, pulling
music boxes and watches apart to learn the
secret of the melody or the tick? Or were you
a sculptor, clay-marked. stone-dusted? So on
through the gamut-little brains that planned
and schemed, little hands that builded, pulled
down, dug, molded-bruised, soiled, bleeding
little fingers of youth fighting for fame so early
In the struggled And how the young blood
made the heart go bumpty bump when success
crowned the Juvenile effort! How strong the
house of sand on sand; how grand the big
chinked stone castle; how swift the wheel on
the little stream; how thankful pussy. Carlo
and the old crow looked: how accurate old Dob
bin stood forth in coal on the boards of the old
gray barn; how beautiful all results of the
youthful nd and striving brain! Did you follow
the first 4ncy on and on. or was it buried along
with other youthful hopes in the graveyard that
lies between the cradle and the trundle bed
where angels are the only weepersf Were they
crowded out by others ripper, brighter, broader.
or did they die In the day dawn of real life2
Some of US. you know, still gnaw the husks of
early disappointments see way back in the
morning glow the ruined castles, razed by
parental pride, prejudice or ignorance. So it's
better to ler the boy follow his bent, providing
it leads to a safe goal. Don't draw around him
a magic circle of trade caste in the hope of
keeping his hands white and soft even up to the
face-wrinkling time Let him worship his
youthful gods; force not your idols upon him.
Let the unwrItten law rule in that realm of
fairy fancies. The fittest usually survive, you
know. Happy he who stuck to the first path
thorny stony though it has been. He had the
will to pursue; he has the will to perceive. He
will solve the problem, build the machine, per-
feet the structure. swim where others sink, fat
ten where others grow lean, live where others
die.
THE necktie makers always have men by the
throat
THE kangaroo is not cruel. even II IL does
give its young the sack.
In sunny days. where big waves break.
She led me in loves whirl;
But, SAD to say, got the shake
She's not my winter girl
POOR Yorick is the champion stage skuller,
in spite of the Hanlans and Teemers.
In drama built upon a race course you must |
expect great deal of horse play.
ANOTHER New York murderer is booked for |
the electric killing chair. Keep the experts |
out of the death chamber this time, gentlemen, |
and stop all the rubbish about volts and re-
voting scenes.
AT AUTUMN's BIER.
Gaunt limbs thin shadows cast on red-leaved |
ground,
Brown reeds and weeds with seedless heads are |
crowned;
In well-reaped fields lie rotting stubblc rows,
Scared willows weep where sluggish current
flows.
The sun sinks early cutting short the day,
And night fast gathers DER the brown decay;
The ivy, deathlike, clings to crumbling wall,
While one by one its sapless tendrils fall.
The meek-eyed kline browse round the barn. |
I'd stack