The mirror. (Stillwater, Minn.) 1894-1925, 1907-09-05
do. Love is but intense hate after

j do. Love is but intense hate after
all.
Friendship, a Poem of Nature, sung
by choir we family hear, but strain
we every nerve to catch its faintest
sound. 1t fascinates, and the crudest
ear often catches its tiniest melodies;
while more cultured ear gets only
the slower vibrations. Companions,
who awakens your hidden harp?
Whose telepathy is tuned to your re-
ceiver? Whose thoughts today stir
your hearts? Who prays for you; who
pcays for me today? Every mans air
castle is inhabited by his ideal; the
ideal who voices his hopes, his fears,
his aspirations.
We English-speaking people have no
acceptable poet today. This genera
tion has not produced a successor to
Emerson, Longfellow or Tennyson.
No poetic thread of gold is apparent
in the web today weaving. Why is it
SO? You and | may not know, but a
generation now in, the kindergarten
grade will tell us why, when it is grad
uated ten years from now. 1t may say
that this hidden talent was but latent
and springs to life in new machinery,
new aud startling discoveries in science,
in epoch-making diplomacy and uni
varsaI hrotherhOOd
shall never forget the impression
made on my mind thirty years ago,
when heard an immortal voice sing
"The Last Rose of Summer" who, as
she sang, III beauteous manner, cast
from her hands the petals of rose.
Twas beautiful, and the vast audience
was transported to tears, as she ended
the rendition. But we love the old
songs and singers who thrilled our
young life. and made rs better for the
time being. Our best friend, oar
mother, used to sing us tie most lovely
songs. Didn't she: We hear them
yet today, and wish the clock of time
might turn back ward and that mother
again would come, to many of us, from
the echoless shore, and press us once
more to her heart as of yore. New
melodies, and new songs we've heard
and the changing years have tlnged
our hair with the same threads Of sill
yer, which once looked to us SO very
far away. 1 used to wonder why my
mother sang SO feeling1y,
81 would give the world to know,
Do they think of me at home,
but today know. And fathers voice
thrilled me with Lines, which he as {
sea captain had sung, when Oh a lois
ferrous sea:
'l.ook beyond there's light for thee
Streaming DER turbid sea;
Brightly 1t gitters tho distant far
The beautiful polar star"
So these best friends, the best wei
ever know, held as to love and to b.
loved. But what OF our subsequen
friends? Have we deserved them
Are they still oursp We are not
contortionist, nor do we juggle. Th
friendship we choose to call our own i
only as truly q creation of JOY an
beauty, as we have contrived by rea
effort to cement love and loyalty int
it. A Sunmun eboaaasas friendship
one in which genuine David and Johr
athan love predominates.
A golden toy, to child, is not on
half as lovely, in its eyes, as the rag-do
which loving sister of ten summer
had crudely made of stuff found in th
). scrap bag; and why? Because re
string OF genuine love bound its part
J together, and reallove directs its NAL
ing. Because love, not show, is one {
!, life's greatest assets. The friendship
we build are worth no more, no les
than the love and forebearance we pr
into them.
Well, now we have our friend; an
true to the pole, he too has his frien
There may be ! relationship MOI
beautiful than q real genuine, simol
l. pure friendship betWeen men; but
0. there be, l know it not. Almost
n quite from the start, forgiveness ar
p forebearance will be apparent in Il
It demeanor of eachGto the other. for th
Q, union is not to be broken. Sham fo
D giveness will not answer, for it W
,e have been found that real forgivene
Is snd no make believe variety win lol
]? preserve this desirable lecompact. Eth