Make Fun Of Life!

Farming

1/13/2019

Farming

Farming has always brought me peace,
     It’s a partnership with God -
I plant the seeds, He makes them grow
     Where before there was only sod.

Through hot summer days I cultivate,
     He sends sun and rain -
Then when autumn cools the air
     There’s harvest of golden grain.

by Rea Williams

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Ten Enthusiastic Workers

12/12/2018

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Ten Enthusiastic Workers

Ten enthusiastic workers, vigorous and fine;
One had another commitment, and then there were nine.

Nine enthusiastic workers, excited and elate;
One got hired away, and then there were eight.

Eight enthusiastic workers, keeping things even;
One got sloppy, and then there were seven.

Seven enthusiastic workers, giving it their best;
One found it tedious, and then there were six.

Six enthusiastic workers, looking all alive;
One fell asleep, and then there were five.

Five enthusiastic workers, keeping up their score;
One showed up late, and then there were four.

Four enthusiastic workers, bright as bright can be;
One became careless, and then there were three.

Three enthusiastic workers, seeking work to do;
One thought he couldn’t, and then there were two.

Two enthusiastic workers, proud of good things done;
One grew too tired, and then there was one.

One enthusiastic worker, still hanging on;
Because persevering had made him strong.

by Author Unknown

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Why I Like Business

12/2/2018

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Why I Like Business

I like business because it is competitive. Business keeps books. The books are the score cards. Profit is the measure of accomplishment, not the ideal measure, but the most practical that can be devised.

I like business because it compels earnestness. Amateurs and dilettantes are shoved out. Once in you must fight for survival or be carried to the sidelines.

I like business because it requires courage. Cowards do not get to first base.

I like business because it demands faith. Faith in human nature, faith in one’s self, faith in one’s customers, faith in one’s employees.

I like business because it is the essence of life. Dreams are good, poetical fancies are good, but bread must be baked today, trains must move today, bills must be collected today, payrolls met today. Business feeds, clothes, and houses man.

I like business because it rewards deeds and not words.

I like business because it does not neglect today’s task while it is thinking about tomorrow.

I like business because it undertakes to please, not to reform.

I like business because it is orderly.

I like business because it is bold in enterprise.

I like business because it is honestly selfish, thereby avoiding the hypocrisy and sentimentality of the unselfish mind.

I like business because it is promptly penalized for its mistakes, shiftlessness, and inefficiency.

I like business because its philosophy works.

I like business because each day is a fresh, adventure.

by William Feather: as published in the “Herald-Times Reporter” (21 July 1927), page 3; a newspaper of Manitowoc, Wisconsin, United States of America

William Arthur Feather was born on 25 August 1889 in Jamestown, New York, United States of America. He was married to Ruth Elizabeth Presley on 30 October 1912, and together the couple had two children. He became a publisher and a writer. He spent much of his life in Cleveland, Ohio, United States of America, where he owned a profitable printing business and published, “The William Feather Magazine.” William Arthur Feather passed on at 91 years of age on 7 January 1981.

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The Boy Without a Reference

11/15/2018

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The Boy Without a Reference

John was fifteen, and anxious to get a desirable place in the office of a well-known lawyer, who had advertised for a boy. John doubted his success in obtaining this position, because, being a stranger in the city, he had no reference to present.

“I am afraid I will stand a poor chance,” he thought, despondently. “However, I will try to appear as well as I can, and that may help me a little.”

So he was careful to have his dress and person neat, and when he took his turn to be interviewed, went in with his hat in his hand and a smile on his face.

The keen-eyed lawyer glanced him over from head to foot. “Good face,” he thought, “and pleasant ways.” Then he noted the neat suit - but other boys had appeared in new clothes - saw the well-brushed hair, and clean skin. Very well; but there had been others quite as cleanly. Another glance, however, showed the fingernails free from dirt. “Ah, that looks like thoroughness,” thought the lawyer.

Then he asked a few direct, rapid questions, which John answered as directly. “Prompt,” was his mental comment; “can speak up when necessary.”

“Let’s see your writing,” he added aloud.

John took a pen and wrote his name.

“Very well; easy to read, and no flourishes. Now, what references have you?”

The dreadful question at last! John’s face fell. He had begun to feel some hope of success, but this dashed it again.

“I haven’t any,” he said, slowly. “I am almost a stranger in the city.”

“Cannot take a boy without references,” was the brusque reply.

As he spoke, a sudden thought sent a flush to John’s cheek. “I haven’t any reference,” he said, with hesitation; “but here is a letter from Mother which I just received. I wish you would read it.”

The lawyer took it. It was a short letter:

My Dear John,

I want to remind you that wherever you find work, you must consider that work your own. Do not go into it, as some boys do, with the feeling that you will do as little as you can and get something better soon, but make up your mind that you will do as much as possible, and make yourself so necessary to your employer that he will never let you go. You have been a good son to me, and I can truly say that I have never known you to shirk. Be as good in business, and I am sure God will bless your efforts.

“Hmm!” said the lawyer, reading it over the second time. “That’s pretty good advice, John, excellent advice. I rather think I will try you, even without the references.”

John has been with him six years, and last spring was admitted to the bar.

“Do you intend taking that young man into partnership?” asked a friend lately.

“Yes, I do. I could not get along without John; he is my right-hand man!” exclaimed the lawyer, heartily.

And John always says the best reference he ever had was his mother’s good advice and honest praise.

by Author Unknown

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Work

11/12/2018

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Work

Let me but do my work from day to day,
In field or forest, at the desk or loom,
In roaring market-place or tranquil room;
Let me but find it in my heart to say,
When vagrant wishes beckon me astray,
   “This is my work; my blessing, not my doom;
   “Of all who live, I am the one by whom
“This work can best be done in the right way.”
Then shall I see it not too great, nor small,
   To suit my spirit and to prove my powers;
   Then shall I cheerful greet the laboring hours,
And cheerful turn, when the long shadows fall
     At eventide, to play and love and rest,
     Because I know for me my work is best.

by Henry van Dyke

Henry Jackson van Dyke, Junior was born on 10 November 1852 in Germantown, Pennsylvania, United States of America. He was a Christian Presbyterian minister, a college professor, an ambassador, a short story writer, an essayist, and a poet. Henry Jackson van Dyke, Junior passed on at 80 years of age on 10 April 1933 in Princeton, New Jersey, United States of America.

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The Spirit of Work

9/28/2018

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The Spirit of Work

A this momentous point of time, when the Old Year and the New Year are blending imperceptibly into that mystic web of human history called Past and Present, what says the dial of our destiny? On what figure in the round of man’s life and progress does the rising sun of the Future shed its clearest and most commanding ray? Let us look up and see! Let us lift our eyes from our dreary self-absorption and miserable personal and petty cares, let us read the shining numeral that marks our immediate national duty Work! Work is the center from which all the lines of a nation’s power and prosperity radiate; and work is, with us, the burning topic of the day. Work that is urgently sought and demanded; work that needs doing; work waiting to be taken strenuously in hand; work that must and shall be done, or all the forces of God and Nature will demand why it is left undone! Before all rulers, priests, statesmen, and people in our Empire lies a vast field of labor a field in which as yet so little of the soil has been tilled, and so scanty the grain which has been sown, that such harvest as may be gathered in is well-nigh profitless. Work is, to a certain extent, slowly going on, but the real ‘spirit’ of work is almost, if not entirely, lacking. And success is impossible in any undertaking, unless one has all one’s heart and soul in the means whereby success is attained. The simplest task has its result in something satisfactory, if per formed by a cheerful and willing worker, while the most brilliant opportunities of high achievement are stultified and rendered nil by a laggard, reluctant, or prejudiced humor. The ‘spirit’ of work must be centered in work before any work can be done worth doing.

There are certain persons of singular and altogether diseased mind who look upon work as a hardship scarcely to be borne. These are the outcasts of Nature. For if we faithfully study Nature, our divine Mother, we find that never for a single second does she know any cessation of toil. Forever and ever she patiently essays to teach us, her children, the secret of her beauty, her fruitfulness, her wisdom; and forever and ever we turn aside, striving in puny fashion to oppose ourselves to her immutable laws while creating impracticable ones of our own. She shows us that the loveliness of land and sea, the blossoming of trees and flowers, the plumage of birds and butterflies, the formation of precious gems in the rocks and among the shells of the ocean, are all the result of Work. The diamond is the brilliant effect of patient conformation to the necessary elements of its composition in the mine. The pearl is merely the proof of laborious effort on the part of a poor bivalve to mend a wound in its shell. When with the coming spring we see the first dainty aconites breaking the dark ground into gold, we know they have been ‘working’ their way through the earth determinedly, moved by the divine instinct and desire of light. Strange it is that we cannot at least do our work as well as these simple organisms which passively obey the Divine Command! We judge ourselves ‘superior’ to them; but in that we cannot or will not do our ‘work’ so well, we are inferior. We have less patience than the diamond; less adaptability than the oyster; less courage than the aconite. The particular kind of work which we perhaps find ready to our hand to do, does not suit our ‘convenience.’ We are too ‘great’ for anything that savors of the ‘menial.’ The duties to which honor, conscience, and self-respect bind us are ‘narrow’ or ‘monotonous.’ We want to be something we are not, and for which we were never intended to be; and like the fabled frog who sought to become a bull, we burst ourselves with an inflated idea of our own value. The famous Quentin Matsys was a blacksmith. But he did not scorn the blacksmith’s trade or the blacksmith’s shop: he raised the smithy work to the height of his own creative genius, as is testified to this day by his exquisitely fashioned iron fountain in the Cathedral Square of Antwerp. Benvenuto Cellini was a metal worker, and his ‘trade’ was his joy. He was content to stick to his trade; and to design such marvels of work in his trade, that his name has come down to us in our generation as one of the few among the masters of art in the world.

In Great Britain there is, most unfortunately, a certain ‘class’ contempt for ‘trades.’ The worker in any one of them is hampered on all sides; and his individuality, if he happens to possess any, is too frequently condemned and repressed. The man who is occupied in a trade is called a ‘common’ man. Many folks among us are a great deal too fond of this word ‘common.’ They use it on all occasions, in and out of season depreciatively, or contemptuously. They have a fastidious abhorrence for ‘common’ things. They dislike the ‘common’ people. The brave soul who has climbed inch by inch up the ladder of prosperity, beginning at the very lowest rung and arriving success fully at the top, receives but a grudging meed of praise ‘he comes of common family’ he is quite a ‘common’ person! This expression ‘common’ is a favorite one with the sort of people who are found languishing idly among the ‘hangers-on’ of ‘county’ magnates, striving to claim kinship (through some pre-Adamite ‘family connection’) with a lord, or a duke, or some such human toy of material circumstance; and preferring to pass their time generally in disseminating stupid scandal and mischievous gossip, rather than mix with ‘common’ everyday honest men and women who have work to do in the world, and who honestly do it. Among them are most of the toadies, time-servers, and hypocrites of the community; creatures who crawl before a trumpery ‘title’ as abjectly as a beaten cur trails its body along in the dust under the whip of its master, and who have neither the courage nor the perception to see that there is nothing in God’s universe that we dare call ‘common.’ Every smallest particle of creation, from a star to a dewdrop, is designed to be perfect in itself, and individually adapted to individual uses. We may not rightly call any man, woman, or child ‘common,’ except in so far as they belong to our ‘common’ humanity, and share with us the joys of the ‘common’ sunshine, the ‘common’ fresh air, the privilege of a ‘common’ grave, and the right of a ‘common’ faith in God. And the ‘common’ man who has worked, and through work alone has performed the un-‘common’ feat of raising himself from the low to the high, is far more to be admired and respected than he who, born to the heritage of millions, trifles away his time in idle squandering and foolish dissipation. Nature marks this latter class of wealthy ‘loafers’ so that we may know them. Their banking-accounts may be written in raised letters of gold, but on their faces we read in unmistakable characters what may be called a ‘Public Warning.’ The man who himself works for his own, is a much healthier type of humanity than the man who merely takes what others have made for him.

There is no degradation in any sort of work. The field-laborer turning the heavy clods of earth, in preparation for the sowing of grain, is every whit as noble as the student who, by patient research, prepares the way for a harvest of fresh scientific discovery, always providing that the true ‘spirit’ of work is in both men. For the ‘spirit’ of work is the love of work; it is the bending of all one’s energies, for love’s sake, upon the particular task we have in hand. With love all things are easy; without love, the smallest duty becomes burdensome. There is no reason why another Benvenuto Cellini should not arise in the metal trade, no cause why another Michael Angelo should not paint ceilings in fresco. We are frequently shamed, not so much by the enterprise of other nations, as by our own idleness and inefficiency. We make a great clamor about ‘gentility’ a form of snobbishness more prevalent in the British Islands than anywhere else. Many a working-man’s wife would rather place her sons as clerks in city offices than apprentice them to a useful trade, because she foolishly imagines clerks are ‘gentlemen,’ forgetting that ‘gentlemen’ are not made by position, but by conduct. Every so-called ‘gentleman’ in the land would be much the better for learning some trade before considering his education completed. No trade is, of itself, contemptible; each branch offers its own chances of new discovery and higher development, depending on the invention, ambition, energy, and resource of those employed in it. Thought and perseverance in a worker are bound to raise whatever work he or she is employed in to an art. Personally speaking, I am bound to say that I have never found any one who is really clever, trustworthy, and persevering, in any trade or profession, among the ‘Unemployed.’ The real lovers of work seem always to have enough, and more than enough, work to do. I endorse every word recently written by a clever American writer who, discussing the ‘Unemployed,’ and the men who declare they have ‘no chance nowadays,’ says: ‘I do not believe that life is more difficult than it used to be. To-day, perhaps, you may have to know French, shorthand, or typewriting among the means of livelihood. But to learn them all does not require a greater sacrifice of brain power than was required of our grandfathers to learn reading and writing. They often had to walk six miles there and six miles back from a school, and when they had learnt an accomplishment the ‘competition’ was ‘fearful.’ At the bottom of much of this modern outcry of the terrible difficulties of life nowadays, there appears to me to be a good deal of self-conceit, when the cry is raised by a successful man, and of self-excuse when the cry is used by an unsuccessful man. The former likes to impress upon you that he has done something heroic; the latter that he has failed simply because nobody could have succeeded.

‘The world seems overstocked with everything,’ a gloomy-minded man remarked to Lord Palmerston. ‘I can tell you some things that the world has never enough of,’ replied Palmerston, ‘and that it is always willing to pay for: intelligence, honesty, courage, and perseverance. In these the supply will never exceed the demand.’

Intelligence, honesty, courage, and perseverance are never found in the worker who does not truly love his work. Love brings all the virtues in its train. Love means earnest concentration on the thing beloved. Goethe’s inspiring lines should animate the mind and brace the energies of every worker:

Are you in earnest? Seize this very minute,
Whatever you can do, or dream you can begin it;
Boldness has genius, power, magic in it;
Only engage, and then the mind grows heated;
Begin! and then the work will be completed.

Nature never knows ‘short hours.’ She works at midnight as steadily as she does at mid-day. In the very sleep of her manifold creatures she has designed a working remedial system by which the wear and tear of brain and body shall be repaired. I doubt if any living organism in the whole vast Cosmos ever seeks a holiday save Man. I have often marveled that so sagacious a person as ‘St. Lubbock,’ now Lord Avebury, should have instituted ‘Bank Holidays’ for men, seeing that he has studied the habits and customs of bees. When we complain of working ‘over-time,’ we are really proclaiming ourselves as inferior to the ants and beetles. When we indulge ourselves in idleness and ‘loafing’ we are doing something diametrically opposed to all the laws of the universe. What wonder then if the secret forces of that universe forces whose vast movements we only as yet dimly realize should cast us out among the unfit and ‘Unemployed’? In the bird-world, if one of the feathered community refuses to work for its own living, it is quickly dispatched, as an abnormal and diseased creature. And there is not the slightest doubt that voluntary idleness is nothing less than a morbid growth in the mind, as devastating as a cancer in the body. Nowadays we find scores of people bent on ‘amusing’ themselves. ‘How are you going to ‘amuse’ yourself?’ is a daily question, or ‘What shall we do to kill time and ‘amuse’ ourselves?’ Nobody seems to grasp the fact that in Work, and work alone, is the source of both ‘amusement’ and happiness, as well as of prosperity and power. As for ‘killing time,’ that is a criminal act, for every moment is precious to those who know how to use it honestly. By-and-by our little clocks in this world must stop, and we shall be spared no more of the golden minutes, laden with blessing, opportunity, and love, which, while we live, are given to us freely from the treasuries of God. To ‘kill’ one of them is to murder a living thing.

Certain it is, however, that ‘amusement,’ or what is called by that name, is the fetish of the hour. The wealthy classes of our day set a most mischievous example of time-wasting to the rest of the community, and until they cease to create scandal by their extravagance, licentiousness, sensualism, and luxury, so long will there be discontent and disorder among what we are pleased to call the ‘lower’ majority of the people. If the rich man passes his time in shooting tame partridges and pheasants, the poor man sees no reason why he should not equally pass his time in playing football. He, too, will be ‘amused’ in his way. And supposing football does not appeal to him, he will seek ‘amusement’ in the public-house, getting drunk on the ‘doctored’ beer provided for him by prosperous brewers, of whom some are in Parliament, and some, with the most sublime hypocrisy, profess to support the ‘temperance’ cause. Honest interest in honest work, and the State encouragement of ambition in honest workers, would serve ‘temperance’ better than a million sermons. Government prizes given for specimens of superlative work done by British workmen in British trades would at least show that statesmen thought of something more than their own positions in the House, ‘tea on the Terrace,’ and Bridge, which three things at present would often appear to occupy them, to the forgetfulness of more pressing matters. Aspiration, research, discovery, and invention should be ‘officially’ encouraged and recognized in every trade and profession not checked, repressed, or ‘sneered down.’ For work is not only the making but the preservation of an Empire, arid all those engaged in work merit first consideration from an Empire’s rulers.

A Worker is always a dignified figure. He is the nearest approach to all that we may reverently conceive or guess of God. The Divine Source of Creation must be an ever-working Power. There can be no cessation, no rest from toil, for that prolific Intelligence which creates by a thought and sustains with a breath. Work must needs bring us into unison with Him who hath made us. And if we work faithfully, in the true ‘spirit’ of work, we shall come closer to the Infinite Life of all things, and shall understand, perchance, the deepest, purest meaning and higher intention of our own existence in this world, from which, when our work here is finished, we shall pass to a higher sphere of Labor and a fuller fruition of Love.

by Marie Corelli (1906)

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Clinching the Bolt

8/30/2018

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Clinching the Bolt

It needed just an extra turn to make the bolt secure,
     A few more minutes on the job and then the work was sure;
But he begrudged the extra turn, and when the task was through,
     The man was back for more repairs in just a day or two.

Two men there are in every place, and one is only fair,
     The other gives the extra turn to every bolt that’s there;
One man is slip-shod in his work and eager to be quit,
     The other never leaves a task until he’s sure of it.

The difference ’twixt good and bad is not so very much,
     A few more minutes at the task, an extra turn or touch,
A final test that all is right - and yet the men are few
     Who seem to think it worth their while these extra things to do.

The poor man knows as well as does the good man how to work,
     But one takes pride in every task, the other likes to shirk;
With just as little as he can, one seeks his pay to earn,
     The good man always gives the bolt that clinching, extra turn.

by Edgar A. Guest

Edgar Albert ‘Eddie’ Guest was born on 20 August 1881 in Birmingham, England. He immigrated with his family to the United States of America in 1891. From his first published work in the “Detroit Free Press” until his passing in 1959, he penned some 11,000 poems that were syndicated in 300 newspapers and collected into more than twenty books. Mr. Guest is reputed to have had a new poem published in a newspaper every day for more than thirty years. He became known as ‘The People’s Poet,’ writing poems that were of a sentimental and optimistic nature. Edgar Albert ‘Eddie’ Guest passed on at 77 years of age on 5 August 1959 in Detroit, Michigan, United States of America.

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Words of John Burroughs

8/29/2018

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Words of John Burroughs

What is the best thing for a stream? It is to keep moving. If it stops, it stagnates. So the best thing for a man is that which keeps the currents going, the physical, the moral, and the intellectual currents. Hence the secret of happiness is something to do; some congenial work. Take away the occupation of all men, and what a wretched world it would be! Few persons realize how much of their happiness is dependent upon their work, upon the fact that they are kept busy and not left to feed upon themselves. Happiness comes most to persons who seek her least, and think least about it. It is not an object to be sought; it is a state to be induced. It must follow and not lead. It must overtake you, and not you overtake it. How important is health to happiness, yet the best promoter of health is something to do. Blessed is the man who has some congenial work, some occupation in which he can put his heart, and which affords a complete outlet to all the forces there are in him.

by John Burroughs

John Burroughs was born on 3 April 1837 on a family farm in the Catskill Mountains near Roxbury, Delaware County, New York, United States of America. He became a naturalist and a writer. John Burroughs passed on at 83 years of age on 29 March 1921 near Kingsville, Ashtabula County, Ohio, United States of America.

Image shown above: Kaaterskill Fall on the Spruce Creek in the Catskill Mountains, New York, United States of America.

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Work

8/13/2018

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Work

Work, work, my boy, be not afraid;
     Look labor boldly in the face;
Take up the hammer or the spade,
     And blush not for your humble place.

There’s glory in the shuttle’s song;
     There’s triumph in the anvil’s stroke;
There’s merit in the brave and strong
     Who dig the mine or fell the oak.

The wind disturbs the sleeping lake,
     And bids it ripple pure and fresh;
It moves the green boughs till they make
     Grand music in their leafy mesh.

And so the active breath of life
     Should stir our dull and sluggard wills;
For are we not created rife
     With health, that stagnant torpor kills?

I doubt if he who lolls his head
     Where idleness and plenty meet,
Enjoys his pillow or his bread
     As those who earn the meals they eat.

And man is never half so blest
     As when the busy day is spent
So as to make his evening rest
     A holiday of glad content.

Eliza Cook

Eliza Cook was born on 24 December 1818 in London Road, Southwark, England. She became a poet. Eliza Cook passed on at 70 years of age on 23 September 1889 in Wimbledon, England.

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The Village Blacksmith

8/12/2018

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The Village Blacksmith

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
     The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
     With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
     Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
     His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
     He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
     For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
     You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
     With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
     When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
     Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
     And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
     Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
     And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
     He hears his daughter’s voice,
Singing in the village choir,
     And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
     Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
     How in the grave she lies;
And with his haul, rough hand he wipes
     A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling, - rejoicing, - sorrowing,
     Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
     Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
     Has earned a night’s repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
     For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
     Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
     Each burning deed and thought.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1840)

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born on 27 February 1807 in Portland, Maine, United States of America. He became a poet and a writer, and a professor at Harvard University. His works include “Paul Revere’s Ride” (1860) and the epic “The Song of Hiawatha” (1855). He was one of the five members of a group of 19th-century American poets from New England known as the Fireside Poets. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow passed on at 75 years of age on 24 March 1882.

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The Hard-Work Plan

7/21/2018

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The Hard-Work Plan

From the lowest depths of poverty
     To the highest heights of fame,
From obscureness of position
     To a bright and shining name,
From the mass of human beings
     Who compose the common clan,
You can earn your way to greatness
     By the Hard-Work Plan.

’Twas the key to Lincoln’s progress,
     ’Twas the route to Webster’s fame;
And Garfield by this method
     To distinction laid his claim;
And all earth’s noblest heroes,
     Since this old world first began,
Have earned their way to honor
     By the Hard-Work Plan.

I knew a rich old banker’s son
     Who had no aim in view
But just to sit around and loaf;
     ’Twas all he had to do.
“The old man,” he said, “will keep me,”
     And “I don’t have to pay.”
He earns his bread and butter now
     At fifty cents a day.

And then I knew another lad;
     His folks had money, too;
He didn’t sit around and “loaf,”
     But found some work to do.
The neighbors all were proud of him;
     Said they: “He’ll make a man.”
He earned his way to greatness
     By the Hard-Work Plan.

Go read the lives of men of note,
     Consider their success;
What gave them wealth and eminence?
     Did luck or genius bless?
Biography will tell us that
     The race through which they ran
Was the contest known to history
     As the Hard-Work Plan.

Don’t worry over genius;
     Don’t say you have no brain;
Don’t sit and watch the stars of hope
     Till the clouds bring up a rain;
But up and toil along the road,
     And travel with the van,
And earn your way to greatness
     By the Hard-Work Plan.

by Jonathan Jones

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How Do You Tackle Your Work?

7/20/2018

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How Do You Tackle Your Work?

How do you tackle your work each day?
     Are you scared of the job you find?
Do you grapple the task that comes your way
     With a confident, easy mind?
Do you stand right up to the work ahead
     Or fearfully pause to view it?
Do you start to toil with a sense of dread?
     Or feel that you’re going to do it?

You can do as much as you think you can,
     But you’ll never accomplish more;
If you’re afraid of yourself, young man,
     There’s little for you in store.
For failure comes from the inside first,
     It’s there if we only knew it,
And you can win, though you face the worst,
     If you feel that you’re going to do it.

Success! It’s found in the soul of you,
     And not in the realm of luck!
The world will furnish the work to do,
     But you must provide the pluck.
You can do whatever you think you can,
     It’s all in the way you view it.
It’s all in the start you make, young man:
     You must feel that you’re going to do it.

How do you tackle your work each day?
     With confidence clear, or dread?
What to yourself do you stop and say
     When a new task lies ahead?
What is the thought that is in your mind?
     Is fear ever running through it?
If so, just tackle the next you find
     By thinking you’re going to do it.

by Edgar A. Guest: “A Heap o’ Livin’” (1916)

Edgar Albert ‘Eddie’ Guest was born on 20 August 1881 in Birmingham, England. He immigrated with his family to the United States of America in 1891. From his first published work in the “Detroit Free Press” until his passing in 1959, he penned some 11,000 poems that were syndicated in 300 newspapers and collected into more than twenty books. Mr. Guest is reputed to have had a new poem published in a newspaper every day for more than thirty years. He became known as ‘The People’s Poet,’ writing poems that were of a sentimental and optimistic nature. Edgar Albert ‘Eddie’ Guest passed on at 77 years of age on 5 August 1959 in Detroit, Michigan, United States of America.

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Stick to Your Job

7/19/2018

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Stick to Your Job

Diamonds are only chunks of coal
     That stuck to their jobs, you see;
If they’d petered out, as most of us do,
     Where would the diamonds be?

It isn’t the fact of making a start,
     It’s the sticking that counts. I’ll say,
It’s the fellow that knows not the meaning of fall,
     But hammers and hammers away.

Whenever you think you’ve come to the end,
     And you’re beaten as bad as can be,
Remember that diamonds are chunks of coal,
     That stuck to their jobs, you see.

by Minnie Richard Smith: as published in Christian F. Kleinknecht: “Poor Richard’s Anthology of Thoughts on Success” (1947), page 44

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