Endeavor
“If at first you don’t succeed,
Try, try again,” -
That’s a manly sort of creed,
For boys and men.
Trying doesn’t cost a cent,
May win a prize;
Men that mope in discontent,
Will never rise.
There is magic in a try,
Vigor and vim;
He that trusts in, “by and by,”
Look out for him!
You will never know your strength,
Without a test;
Just by Better Street at length,
One reaches Best.
By Author Unknown
“If at first you don’t succeed,
Try, try again,” -
That’s a manly sort of creed,
For boys and men.
Trying doesn’t cost a cent,
May win a prize;
Men that mope in discontent,
Will never rise.
There is magic in a try,
Vigor and vim;
He that trusts in, “by and by,”
Look out for him!
You will never know your strength,
Without a test;
Just by Better Street at length,
One reaches Best.
By Author Unknown
Hustle And Grin
Smile, and the world smiles with you;
Knock it, and you go alone,
For the cheerful grin
Will let you in
Where the knicker is never known.
Growl and the way looks dreary;
Laugh and the path is bright,
For a wholesome smile
Brings sunshine, while
A frown shuts out the light.
Sigh, and you rake in nothing;
Work, and the prize is won,
For the nervy man
With backbone can
By nothing be outdone.
Hustle, and fortune may bless you;
Quit, and defeat is sure,
For there is no chance
Of deliverance
For the man who can’t endure.
Sing and the world’s harmonious;
Grumble, and things go wrong,
And all the time
You are out of rhyme
With the busy bustling throng.
Kick, and there’s trouble brewing;
Whistle, and life is gay,
All the world’s in tune
Like a day in June
And the clouds all melt away.
By Author Unknown
Smile, and the world smiles with you;
Knock it, and you go alone,
For the cheerful grin
Will let you in
Where the knicker is never known.
Growl and the way looks dreary;
Laugh and the path is bright,
For a wholesome smile
Brings sunshine, while
A frown shuts out the light.
Sigh, and you rake in nothing;
Work, and the prize is won,
For the nervy man
With backbone can
By nothing be outdone.
Hustle, and fortune may bless you;
Quit, and defeat is sure,
For there is no chance
Of deliverance
For the man who can’t endure.
Sing and the world’s harmonious;
Grumble, and things go wrong,
And all the time
You are out of rhyme
With the busy bustling throng.
Kick, and there’s trouble brewing;
Whistle, and life is gay,
All the world’s in tune
Like a day in June
And the clouds all melt away.
By Author Unknown
Waiting And Wishing
There are many who wait for their ships to come in
For their ships to come in from the sea.
This question they ask as they watch and wait:
Will a ship come home to me?
The answer comes swift from a voyager old
A voyager weathered and gray:
Have you sent forth a craft with a cargo friend?
A craft that might come in today?
There are many who long for their ships to come in
That they from their cares may be free;
But how could a ship come home to them
When they’ve sent no craft to sea?
By Author Unknown
There are many who wait for their ships to come in
For their ships to come in from the sea.
This question they ask as they watch and wait:
Will a ship come home to me?
The answer comes swift from a voyager old
A voyager weathered and gray:
Have you sent forth a craft with a cargo friend?
A craft that might come in today?
There are many who long for their ships to come in
That they from their cares may be free;
But how could a ship come home to them
When they’ve sent no craft to sea?
By Author Unknown
Count That Day Lost
If you sit down at set of sun
And count the acts that you have done,
And, counting, find
One self-denying deed, one word
That eased the heart of him who heard,
One glance most kind
That fell like sunshine where it went-
Then you may count that day well spent.
But if, through all the livelong day,
You’ve cheered no heart, by yea or nay-
If, through it all
You’ve nothing done that you can trace
That brought the sunshine to one face-
No act most small
That helped some soul and nothing cost -
Then count that day as worse than lost.
By George Eliot
George Eliot is a pseudonym of Mary Anne Evans, possibly also known as Marian Evans Cross, who was born on 22 November 1819 in Nuneaton, Warwickshire, England. She became a novelist and a poet. She is known for her novel “Middlemarch” (1871 - 1872), among others. She was married to J. W. Cross in 1880. Mary Anne Evans passed on at 61 years of age on 22 December 1880 in Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, Middlesex, England.
If you sit down at set of sun
And count the acts that you have done,
And, counting, find
One self-denying deed, one word
That eased the heart of him who heard,
One glance most kind
That fell like sunshine where it went-
Then you may count that day well spent.
But if, through all the livelong day,
You’ve cheered no heart, by yea or nay-
If, through it all
You’ve nothing done that you can trace
That brought the sunshine to one face-
No act most small
That helped some soul and nothing cost -
Then count that day as worse than lost.
By George Eliot
George Eliot is a pseudonym of Mary Anne Evans, possibly also known as Marian Evans Cross, who was born on 22 November 1819 in Nuneaton, Warwickshire, England. She became a novelist and a poet. She is known for her novel “Middlemarch” (1871 - 1872), among others. She was married to J. W. Cross in 1880. Mary Anne Evans passed on at 61 years of age on 22 December 1880 in Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, Middlesex, England.
Brown’s Vacation
“I’ve had a vacation,” said Timothy Brown;
“A fine one, although I have not left the town.
I merely vacated my worries and fears,
And at once became younger by fairly five years.
I vacated my ruts, and began to enjoy
My regular, humdrum, but useful employ.
I changed my whole outlook and vision of life,
And made it a pastime instead of a strife.
I’ve had a vacation, not vacant, a bore,
But fuller and freer than ever before;
The best of vacations for fat purse or lean, -
A change of the seeing instead of the scene.”
By Amos R. Wells: “The Collected Poems of Amos R. Wells” (1921)
Amos Russel Wells was born on 23 December 1862 in Glens Falls, Warren County, New York, United States of America. He became a college professor, an editor, a poet, and a writer. Amos Russel Wells passed on at 70 years of age on 6 March 1933 in Newton, Middlesex County, Massachusetts, United States of America.
“I’ve had a vacation,” said Timothy Brown;
“A fine one, although I have not left the town.
I merely vacated my worries and fears,
And at once became younger by fairly five years.
I vacated my ruts, and began to enjoy
My regular, humdrum, but useful employ.
I changed my whole outlook and vision of life,
And made it a pastime instead of a strife.
I’ve had a vacation, not vacant, a bore,
But fuller and freer than ever before;
The best of vacations for fat purse or lean, -
A change of the seeing instead of the scene.”
By Amos R. Wells: “The Collected Poems of Amos R. Wells” (1921)
Amos Russel Wells was born on 23 December 1862 in Glens Falls, Warren County, New York, United States of America. He became a college professor, an editor, a poet, and a writer. Amos Russel Wells passed on at 70 years of age on 6 March 1933 in Newton, Middlesex County, Massachusetts, United States of America.
Couldn’t And Could
Couldn’t and Could were two promising boys
Who lived not a great while ago.
They had just the same playmates and just the same toys,
And just the same chances for winning life’s joys,
And all that the years may bestow.
And Could soon found out he could fashion his life
On lines very much as he planned;
He could cultivate goodness and guard against strife,
He could have all his deeds with good cheer to be rife,*
And build him a name that would stand.
But poor little Couldn’t just couldn’t pull through;
All the trials he met with a sigh;
When a task needed doing, he couldn’t, he knew;
And hence, when he couldn’t, how could he? Could you,
If you couldn’t determine you’d try?
So Could just kept building his way to success,
Not clouding his sky with a doubt;
But Couldn’t strayed into the Slough of Distress.
Alas! and his end is easy to guess -
Strayed in, but he couldn’t get out.
And that was the difference ’twixt Couldn’t and Could:
Each followed his own chosen plan;
And when Couldn’t just wouldn’t,
Could earnestly would,
And won with the watchword, “I can!”
By Nixon Waterman
*‘rife’ means ‘to be abounding’ or ‘to be filled with.’
Nixon Waterman was born on 12 November 1859 in Newark, Kendall County, Illinois, United States of America, as the son of Lyman Waterman and Elizabeth Waterman. He lived on a farm until he was 20 years of age, teaching school during the winter months, and began his newspaper career at 21 years of age in the mechanical department of a country weekly in Creston, Iowa. Mr. Waterman was married on 14 March 1883 to Nellie Haskins of Menasha, Wisconsin. Weary of being a press operator, he tried his hand at other branches of the business, and made rapid progress. He first won flattering recognition as a newspaper editorial writer in Omaha, Nebraska. He moved to Chicago in October 1889, where he supplied the editorial page of the Chicago “Herald” with witty and catchy rhymes printed under the caption, “Small Change,” which were copied in publications across America. When the proprietors of the “Herald” started the “Evening Post,” he was one of the coteries selected to create for that venture the conditions of popularity with the public. After seven months on the “Post,” he went back to the “Herald,” but a year later resigned to work for “Puck,” “Truth,” “Youth’s Companion” and other popular weekly newspapers and magazines. Nixon Waterman was a newspaper writer, a poet, a book author, and a Chautauqua lecturer. His first wife Nellie Waterman (maiden name Haskins) passed on sometime in 1940, and in November 1940, he married Grace Sanford Leavitt. Nixon Waterman passed on at 84 years of age on 1 September 1944 in Canton, Norfolk County, Massachusetts, United States of America.
Couldn’t and Could were two promising boys
Who lived not a great while ago.
They had just the same playmates and just the same toys,
And just the same chances for winning life’s joys,
And all that the years may bestow.
And Could soon found out he could fashion his life
On lines very much as he planned;
He could cultivate goodness and guard against strife,
He could have all his deeds with good cheer to be rife,*
And build him a name that would stand.
But poor little Couldn’t just couldn’t pull through;
All the trials he met with a sigh;
When a task needed doing, he couldn’t, he knew;
And hence, when he couldn’t, how could he? Could you,
If you couldn’t determine you’d try?
So Could just kept building his way to success,
Not clouding his sky with a doubt;
But Couldn’t strayed into the Slough of Distress.
Alas! and his end is easy to guess -
Strayed in, but he couldn’t get out.
And that was the difference ’twixt Couldn’t and Could:
Each followed his own chosen plan;
And when Couldn’t just wouldn’t,
Could earnestly would,
And won with the watchword, “I can!”
By Nixon Waterman
*‘rife’ means ‘to be abounding’ or ‘to be filled with.’
Nixon Waterman was born on 12 November 1859 in Newark, Kendall County, Illinois, United States of America, as the son of Lyman Waterman and Elizabeth Waterman. He lived on a farm until he was 20 years of age, teaching school during the winter months, and began his newspaper career at 21 years of age in the mechanical department of a country weekly in Creston, Iowa. Mr. Waterman was married on 14 March 1883 to Nellie Haskins of Menasha, Wisconsin. Weary of being a press operator, he tried his hand at other branches of the business, and made rapid progress. He first won flattering recognition as a newspaper editorial writer in Omaha, Nebraska. He moved to Chicago in October 1889, where he supplied the editorial page of the Chicago “Herald” with witty and catchy rhymes printed under the caption, “Small Change,” which were copied in publications across America. When the proprietors of the “Herald” started the “Evening Post,” he was one of the coteries selected to create for that venture the conditions of popularity with the public. After seven months on the “Post,” he went back to the “Herald,” but a year later resigned to work for “Puck,” “Truth,” “Youth’s Companion” and other popular weekly newspapers and magazines. Nixon Waterman was a newspaper writer, a poet, a book author, and a Chautauqua lecturer. His first wife Nellie Waterman (maiden name Haskins) passed on sometime in 1940, and in November 1940, he married Grace Sanford Leavitt. Nixon Waterman passed on at 84 years of age on 1 September 1944 in Canton, Norfolk County, Massachusetts, United States of America.
The Busy Man
If you want to get a favor done
By some obliging friend,
And want a promise, safe and sure,
On which you may depend,
Don’t go to him who always has
Much leisure time to plan,
But if you want your favor done,
Just ask the busy man.
The man with leisure never has
A moment he can spare,
He’s always “putting off” until
His friends are in despair.
But he whose every waking hour
Is crowded full of work
Forgets the art of wasting time,
He cannot stop to shirk.
So when you want a favor done,
And want it right away,
Got to the man who constantly
Works twenty hours a day.
He’ll find a moment, sure, somewhere,
That has no other use,
And help you, while the idle man
Is framing an excuse.
By William Henry Hills
If you want to get a favor done
By some obliging friend,
And want a promise, safe and sure,
On which you may depend,
Don’t go to him who always has
Much leisure time to plan,
But if you want your favor done,
Just ask the busy man.
The man with leisure never has
A moment he can spare,
He’s always “putting off” until
His friends are in despair.
But he whose every waking hour
Is crowded full of work
Forgets the art of wasting time,
He cannot stop to shirk.
So when you want a favor done,
And want it right away,
Got to the man who constantly
Works twenty hours a day.
He’ll find a moment, sure, somewhere,
That has no other use,
And help you, while the idle man
Is framing an excuse.
By William Henry Hills
Learn A Little Every Day
Little rills make wider streamlets,
Streamlets swell, the rivers flow;
Rivers join the mountain billows,
Onward as they go!
Life is made of smaller fragments,
Shade and sunshine, work or play;
So we may with greater profit,
Learn a little every day.
Tiny seeds make boundless harvests,
Drops of rain compose the showers,
Seconds make the flying minutes,
And the minutes make the hours.
Let us hasten them and catch them,
As they pass us on the way,
And with honest true endeavor,
Learn a little every day.
Let us read some striking passage,
Cull a verse from every page,
Here a line and there a sentence,
’Gainst the lonely time of age.
At our work, or by the wayside,
While the sun is making hay,
Thus we may by help of study,
Learn a little every day.
By Author Unknown
Little rills make wider streamlets,
Streamlets swell, the rivers flow;
Rivers join the mountain billows,
Onward as they go!
Life is made of smaller fragments,
Shade and sunshine, work or play;
So we may with greater profit,
Learn a little every day.
Tiny seeds make boundless harvests,
Drops of rain compose the showers,
Seconds make the flying minutes,
And the minutes make the hours.
Let us hasten them and catch them,
As they pass us on the way,
And with honest true endeavor,
Learn a little every day.
Let us read some striking passage,
Cull a verse from every page,
Here a line and there a sentence,
’Gainst the lonely time of age.
At our work, or by the wayside,
While the sun is making hay,
Thus we may by help of study,
Learn a little every day.
By Author Unknown
Leaving The City Of Regret
I had not really planned on taking a trip this time of year, and yet I found myself packing rather hurriedly. This trip was going to be unpleasant and I knew in advance that no real good would come of it. I’m talking about my annual “Guilt Trip.”
I got tickets to fly there on “WISHIHAD” airlines. It was an extremely short flight. I got my baggage, which I could not check. I chose to carry it myself all the way. It was weighted down with a thousand memories of what might have been. No one greeted me as I entered the terminal to the Regret City International Airport. I say international because people from all over the world come to this dismal town.
As I checked into the Last Resort Hotel, I noticed that they would be hosting the year’s most important event, the Annual Pity Party. I wasn’t going to miss that great social occasion. Many of the towns leading citizens would be there.
First, there would be the Done family, you know, Should Have, Would Have and Could Have. Then came the I Had family. You probably know ol’ Wish and his clan. Of course, the Opportunities would be present, Missed, and Lost. The biggest family would be the Yesterday’s. There are far too many of them to count, but each one would have a very sad story to share.
Then Shattered Dreams would surely make an appearance. And It’s Their Fault would regale us with stories (excuses) about how things had failed in his life, and each story would be loudly applauded by Don’t Blame Me and I Couldn’t Help It.
Well, to make a long story short, I went to this depressing party knowing that there would be no real benefit in doing so. And, as usual, I became very depressed. But as I thought about all of the stories of failures brought back from the past, it occurred to me that all of this trip and subsequent “pity party” could be cancelled by ME! I started to truly realize that I did not have to be there. I didn’t have to be depressed.
One thing kept going through my mind, I CAN’T CHANGE YESTERDAY, BUT I DO HAVE THE POWER TO MAKE TODAY A WONDERFUL DAY. I can be happy, joyous, fulfilled, encouraged, as well as encouraging.
Knowing this, I left the City of Regret immediately and left no forwarding address. Am I sorry for mistakes I’ve made in the past? YES! But there is no physical way to undo them.
So, if you’re planning a trip back to the City of Regret, please cancel all your reservations now. Instead, take a trip to a place called, Starting Again. I liked it so much that I have now taken up permanent residence there. My neighbors, the I Forgive Myselfs and the New Starts are so very helpful. By the way, you don’t have to carry around heavy baggage, because the load is lifted from your shoulders upon arrival.
God bless you in finding this great town. If you can find it - it’s in your own heart - please look me up. I live on ICANDOIT street.
By Larry Harp
I had not really planned on taking a trip this time of year, and yet I found myself packing rather hurriedly. This trip was going to be unpleasant and I knew in advance that no real good would come of it. I’m talking about my annual “Guilt Trip.”
I got tickets to fly there on “WISHIHAD” airlines. It was an extremely short flight. I got my baggage, which I could not check. I chose to carry it myself all the way. It was weighted down with a thousand memories of what might have been. No one greeted me as I entered the terminal to the Regret City International Airport. I say international because people from all over the world come to this dismal town.
As I checked into the Last Resort Hotel, I noticed that they would be hosting the year’s most important event, the Annual Pity Party. I wasn’t going to miss that great social occasion. Many of the towns leading citizens would be there.
First, there would be the Done family, you know, Should Have, Would Have and Could Have. Then came the I Had family. You probably know ol’ Wish and his clan. Of course, the Opportunities would be present, Missed, and Lost. The biggest family would be the Yesterday’s. There are far too many of them to count, but each one would have a very sad story to share.
Then Shattered Dreams would surely make an appearance. And It’s Their Fault would regale us with stories (excuses) about how things had failed in his life, and each story would be loudly applauded by Don’t Blame Me and I Couldn’t Help It.
Well, to make a long story short, I went to this depressing party knowing that there would be no real benefit in doing so. And, as usual, I became very depressed. But as I thought about all of the stories of failures brought back from the past, it occurred to me that all of this trip and subsequent “pity party” could be cancelled by ME! I started to truly realize that I did not have to be there. I didn’t have to be depressed.
One thing kept going through my mind, I CAN’T CHANGE YESTERDAY, BUT I DO HAVE THE POWER TO MAKE TODAY A WONDERFUL DAY. I can be happy, joyous, fulfilled, encouraged, as well as encouraging.
Knowing this, I left the City of Regret immediately and left no forwarding address. Am I sorry for mistakes I’ve made in the past? YES! But there is no physical way to undo them.
So, if you’re planning a trip back to the City of Regret, please cancel all your reservations now. Instead, take a trip to a place called, Starting Again. I liked it so much that I have now taken up permanent residence there. My neighbors, the I Forgive Myselfs and the New Starts are so very helpful. By the way, you don’t have to carry around heavy baggage, because the load is lifted from your shoulders upon arrival.
God bless you in finding this great town. If you can find it - it’s in your own heart - please look me up. I live on ICANDOIT street.
By Larry Harp
Words Of Stephen Grellet
I expect to pass through this world but once. Any good, therefore, that I can do, or any kindness I can show to any fellow creature, let me do it now. Let me not defer or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again.
By Stephen Grellet
Stephen Grellet was born as Étienne de Grellet du Mabillier on 2 November 1773 in Dinsac, Limousin, France. He was the son of a counselor to King Henry XVI. At 17 years of age, he entered the King’s bodyguard. During the French Revolution of 1792, he was sentenced to be executed, but fled France, eventually making his way to the United States of America, where he arrived in 1795. In 1796, he joined the Religious Society of Friends, and become a Quaker minister and missionary. Stephen Grellet passed on at 82 years of age on 16 November 1855 in Burlington, New Jersey, United States of America.
I expect to pass through this world but once. Any good, therefore, that I can do, or any kindness I can show to any fellow creature, let me do it now. Let me not defer or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again.
By Stephen Grellet
Stephen Grellet was born as Étienne de Grellet du Mabillier on 2 November 1773 in Dinsac, Limousin, France. He was the son of a counselor to King Henry XVI. At 17 years of age, he entered the King’s bodyguard. During the French Revolution of 1792, he was sentenced to be executed, but fled France, eventually making his way to the United States of America, where he arrived in 1795. In 1796, he joined the Religious Society of Friends, and become a Quaker minister and missionary. Stephen Grellet passed on at 82 years of age on 16 November 1855 in Burlington, New Jersey, United States of America.
