The star. (Reynoldsville, Pa.) 1892-1946, 1897-02-24

Nor us, nor other lives will bless.
'Ts not enough the love To take
That other hearts on ours ouipour;
The soul Is only kept awake
by giving something from its store
'Tls not enough with dropping wing
And aimless feet to walk this earth
Efforts alone can blessing bring
And crown the soul with sovereign worth
Morley Chester In the Queen.
Boys and girls your Uncle William"
has endeavored during the past twenty
weeks to impress upon your minds the
folly Of wasting your golden moments
in frivolous pursuits. and the value Of
improving time from day to day. but
the seeds seem in the main to have been
sown in stony ground and by the way
side. and have not borne the fruit that
they should. The majority of you are
old enough and intelligent enough to
know what is best for you. and If you
neglect your time and allow your pres
ent opportunities to slip by you without
taking advantage Of them. you alone
are to blame and bitterly will you regret
1t, and YOU will in after years fully real
ize the truth of the couplet.
| .,Of all sad words of tongue or pen
| The saddest are these, II might have been" "
The scriptures tell MS that "He that
knoweth his duty and doeth it not shall
be beaten with many stripes" We are
interested in your welfare, boys and
girls, and it would grieve us deeply to
hear that any one of you had made a
wreck of his or her talents. or as the
lecturer said on Friday evening, a mis-
move in the checkercd game Of life.
Study out each move you make and
don't allow yourself to get cornered,
nor any one to block the game on you.
Study hard now. and then you will bet
ter enjoy The rest that will follow and
be able to turn aside all the arrows Of
adversely that may be herafter directed
at you. Read, reflect and act.
A book is essentially. not a talked
thing, but written thing: and written,
not with the view Of mere communica-
tion, but of permanence. The book of
talk is printed only because its author
cannot speak to thousands Of people at
once. II he could he would: the volume
is mere multiplication Of his voice.
You cannot talk to your friend in India:
II you could you would: you write in
stead: that is merely conveyance of
voice. But book is written, not to
multiply the voice, merely, not to carry
1t merely, but to preserve it,-John
Ruskin.
We publish this week "a poetical pro-
duction from II little twelve-year-old
embryo poet of room No. 10, Luther
Harris, who, after witnessing the coast
ing episode, described it in the follow
ing lines, which, though not having the
rhythm of Longfellow or the system
attic metre of Poe, show Il remarkable
talent for one so young. We will call it
THE COW AND THE COASTERS
| OR
FRANK RUPERT'S MIX-UP.
The boy who was guiding,
He didn't know how:
He pulled the wrong string and
Ran into a COW.
Little Frank Rupert,
The unlucky lad.
The cow fell upon him;
| He was hurt very bad.
The boys picked him up,
He was pretty near dead:
He had big cut
On top OF his head.
The blood, il was running
From eyes, mouth and nose,
And II he will live
| There is nobody knows.
| They sent for his mother,
| She was half scared to death:
| But when she saw him
She quit drawing breath.
They sent for the doctor.
| There came Harry King:
But when Frank saw him
He began TO sing.
They took him home
In very nice sleigh.
But Frank went coasting
The very next day.
They sent for his father