San Antonio daily light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1886-1907, 1897-08-01
MOTLEY MUSINGS.
In Poetry and Prose by Querque, for
the Sunday Light.

uS every summer ulBHl. TOT ttllS Ted-
son, when we take a holiday, and
would ease our toiled-strained brain,
we do not lie quietly under the near
est tree. and doze, and dream, and
give insects with cannibal propensities
fair field and no favor; but rush
around, working as hard for amuse-
ment as we did for profit, and taking
as much plains to spend the dollars as
We did to make them. We hurry to
catch crowded trains, toll along dusty
roads, over scorching plains, up I'M
compromising mountains; anywhere,
everywhere; so that we may fancy we
are having a real good time. If only
people took as much pains in their bus
mess as they do with their pleasure,
the poorhouses might be utilized for
other purposes!
Go to the mosquito thu sluggard, con-
slider her ways and be wise.
How doth the busy mosquito
Improve the hours of night,
And make is all our sleep forego
To kick and scratch and fight.
What energy, what persistency!
What strength of characterl How
great the individuality, how insupport-
able the COLLECTIVELY! How sharply
and incisively they claim our atten-
ton! How permanent the impression
they leave behindl
TO THE MOSQUITO.
o thou who, in the night, dost place
On sleep or rest thy cruel Veto
Pity the suff'ring human race,
Benign mosquito.
When hot and sultry summer nights
Make us throw off the very sheets-o
Thy presence every comfort blights,
Murd'rous mosquito!
Yet when dark winter is at hand
With all its bitter cold and sleet-o
| Tho fleest to some other land,
Coward mosquito!
When on the sward the moonbeams
CLINT,
And youth goes forth its love to meet
| %,
Thou causest words unfit for print
Wicked mosquito.
With sudden grasp we strive to stay,
Thy dextrous and quick retreat-o,
Yet never drive thee quite away,
Chronic mosquito!
AS calmly 1 sit writing here
Praising thy powers in rhythmic
| fet-o,
l feel thy presence very near, -
| the mosquito!
Almost every form of rest seems to
involve considerable labor. When free
to disport upon our bicycle, we must
| try to break the record; when we go
camping we must carry endless inn
pedimenta, and perform all the domes-
tic work ourselves; though all the rest
| of the year we are striving to afford to
keep another servant to save us from
such tasks. Fishing appears at first
| sight to require the least exertion.
Given the worm and the apparatus
and a man may sit and read and sleep
| till evening. The worm viii grow pull
Ply, the fish may play hide-and-seek
round the innocent hook, the inquisi-
tive spider may explore the interstices
of his countenance; but peace shall be
nis-until the evening. Then he must
rouse his Imagination to tell of the gi-
ant fish that was nearly caught seek
/ diligently the secluded fish-stall to line
his empty basket, and lay the founda
| ton for the series of thrilling narra-
| tives that shall, next winter, delight
| the select circle Of the local fishing
club.
Sing hey! for the fisherman bold and
| brave
And the charms of the gentle sport
| Sing hey! for the dangers of pool and
| wave
And the fish that are nearly caught
Sing hey! for the fate of the wriggling
| worm
| And the early birds grief and pain
Sing hey! for the cells as they twist
and sQuirm
And slide off the hook once agin.
Sing hey! for the yarns so fearless and
| free.
And the lies that all fishermen spout;
For we know that the fish that remain
in the sea
Are greater than ever came out.
We are all familiar with the pathetic
story of the tradesman who retired
from business and must needs weigh
out sand and sell imaginary pebbles
to drive away onnui. 1t is a touching
tribute to the blessing of work. Only
when work has been honestly done,
can We really enjoy the blessings of
rest. Only, after day of activity,
can we sink into dreamless sleep. Only
when our lives have been spent in de-
voted service to others can we leave
them without regret to enjoy the bles-
sings of eternal peace.
NATURES SLEEP.
How sweet is the sleep of the flowers
| On the breast of the summer night
| AS they wait through the perfumed
| hours
| For the kiss of the waking light!
How sweet is the sleep of the ocean
| When the winds have ceased from
| their strife
And only it's highly hearts motion
Tells the watching stars there is life!