The Washington times., 1914-01-16
Fighting With Fate
By ALMA WOODWARD.


Copyright, 1914. by the Press publishing Co.
I'm twenty-four hours cider than I
was yesterday. 1 have twenty
Il four hours less of NV allotted time
in which to make good. planned a
lot for those twenty-four hours. Yester-
day morning, lying in bel. worked out
the foundation of b lslness campaign
that led to big things aud an Al rating.
l had II all down to a fire point
Everything dovetailed-there-was a
breach anywhere. I lrose, feeling won
derfully energetic and ambitious. Be-
fore 1 had finished dressing, the new
found enthusiasm waned a bit: and,
after breakfast it had flIckered so low
that instead of Immediately seeking
the office and the days work dawdled
over the morning papers, glad of any
excuse to put off the inevitable grind.
Before 1 reached my downtown sta
ton / found a hundred flaws in the
campaign 1 had planned. The rushing.
vital, business-bound crowd absorbed
every bit of faith in my own ability. 1
reached the office the same drab drudge
that had left II the evening before.
And that's what do every day. In
the morning, refreshed by a nights
rest with the warm. soft protection OF
the bedclothes to sootne my imaginings
1 build careers; and, at first touch OF
the outside air, at Iirst contact with
people who are trying to reach the
same objective point, my assurance and
my spirit are sapped from me.
have passed the day when my people
L. Of htNCh1
I'm not old-but 1t takes so few twenty
And when I'm old I'll be in the business
discard. I'll be brushed, unnoticed to
the wall, while the hungry quest for
young blood" goes on. If / can't
reach even the halfway goal when I'm
young, what chance will have at the
starting post when I'm old?
I've made as much as the average
man. Maybe I've made a little more.
But every time a little extra came in
/ felt 1 owed myself some luxury. All
the extras have been spent in luXurieS,
always with the fond faith that there
was more where that came from.
1 have worried and fretted over an
unprovided-for old age and the next
minute, my wallet bulging with a little
unexpected currency. I've "blcwn' the
bunch to celebrate the luck Of the mo-
mGnt.
L II
bone of the trouble. Under the intox-
ication of my own mental eloquence, /
pump cophdence into myself. The next
moment, the false stimulus removed,
I'm fiat and crumpled as a debated
balloon. ! soar to the heights Of i'm
probability and promptly sink to the
depths OF hopelessness. Ny feet never
touch the level of practicability. I
moan over an almshouse future, and,
at the same time, ignore the prevent
ives that are right within NV grasp
I'VE noticed-and that's what most
people do. And when it's too late,
when the door is already creaking on
It's hinges, in welcome. Fate" is
blamed for the disastrous finale.
! must get awake. ! must prod my
self into the race II I won't go will
ingly Every time I feel like letting
down. like just sliding and letting tie
future take care of ITSELF" 1 must
shout into my own ears:
"Now's your time! You've got
strength. You've got ideas. Every old
down-and-outer. every decrepit, old
sponge, every outcast of whom 1t said
Poor fellow. they just didn't run for
him. that's ALL waited until it was too