The states-graphic. (Brownsville, Tenn.) 1???-1984, 1916-02-04
rALEREs,
AZ frans Clreayes.l


This Is not 3 defense of buns. 1t is
not depretiation Of the ideas of
thrift. II is I've truth about some men
who are wearhg lags for the sake Of
ideals-men r.ho refuse to subserve
principle to ths maeness of mammon.
We call them Failures.
Failures ar. hoarders Of talent.
But those wht mfuse to lure the
credulous to d6cph or trade the conf
dence Of friends fof monetary values
these are not failures. They are men
of high ideals vito 90 down in igno-
minious povertv. the curse of rags,
loss of infucs, bearing the white
standard of hiet principles. They are
the successes.
The ragged army Under their
threadbare shir@ repose many lost
faith. In the tAnples Of their hearts
burn the white flames of high hopes
men who woul2u't surrender for a
palace, gold, a htme and the music OF
happy voices drhing the night song
in the golden ta}eaux Of comfortable
hearths. They K inspirations; the
old guard of Na4 4ieon fades into i'm
significance as th stand in the bread
line for the sa Of Unborn right.
Their tol y0;s-s ~ !, Z lssar the marks
They are 5sE 5is.w.. was row. TSo@, watch them
go blythe ragged, worn, wasted men
with heads down. and hearts up to the
sun. Failures ? No! Merciful God,
mol OF all men these are the least
failures. The boy there can cash in
for price, so can that girl, but they
won't so long as faith sweetens the
brown bread Of destitution.
Be honest with them. Don't cry
Failure" nor preach an opportunity
that has a price. Take off your hats.
Gladiators in the arena of life. For
saken they stand before the smirking,
whispering thousands. Thumbs are
down, yet they smile while the wolf
of want snarls at their vitals; victims
of Judgment that is wrong. And
with such vas these, humble, true,
strong souled men went Christie the
cross.
You cry failure? You who filch
pennies from widows palms; you who
betrayed your trust; you who putter
about in the back yard with a song
book in your pocket and snivel over
the Psalms. There is more of pray
er in the cluttering walk of such men
than in your empty mummeries. Take
off your hat. They wear the liveries
of white men, and their souls are
clothed in the ernine of honesty.
Now they are gone-some to the
poor house, some to the potter's field.
No baby will kiss their silent lips, no
tender arms sustain their fainting
forms, no friends viii weep for friends
seldom understand those words of a
prophet who said: Il am the way"
Up in the choir you sat-where the
cherubims of imagination roasted on a
forty dollar hat. You saw him come
in and sit in the shadows, back of the
door-then you smiled. He was moth.
ing; your smile was intended to be a
ray from Paradise. That same night
you took prodigal into the kitchen
and gave him chicken wing that a
wooly headed tom cat couldn't eat.
You cut the buttons off the coat you
bave him--that was to keep him warm.
Remember how you sang, "There's a
great day coming?"
Yes--and look outl
Clothes have become an incentive of
society, an adjunct of beauty, and this
is well-provided But do you know
there are men as good and better, per-
haps, than yoq and me, in rags?
We shun them on on the streets, and
sometimes the Kindness Of a benef-
icent glance may make one ask. "Why
should he be poor
PLATE may have asked that question.
Tonight PLATE knows the answer to
that question.
Clothes don't make the man.