or planting, we've machines to reap and thrash, and
the housewife has an engine that will grind up meat for hash; we've
machines to do our washing and to wring the laundered duds, we've
machines for making cider and to dig the Burbank spuds; all about the
modern farmstead you may hear the levers clink, but we're shy of a
contrivance that will teach the calves to drink!

THE STRONG MEN

Behold the man of muscle, who wears the victor's crown! In gorgeous
scrap and tussle he pinned the others down. His brawn stands out in
hummocks, he like a lion treads; he sits on foemen's stomachs and
stands them on their heads. The strong men of all regions, the mighty
men of note, come here in beefy legions to try to get his goat; with
cordial smiles he greets them, and when we've raised a pot, upon the
mat he meets them and ties them in a knot. From Russia's frozen acres,
from Grecian ports they sail, and Turkey sends her fakers to gather in
the kale; old brooding Europe breeds them, these mighty men of brawn;
our Strong Man takes and kneads them, and puts their hopes in pawn.

Behold this puny fellow, this meek and humble chap! No doubt he'd show
up yellow if he got in a scrap. His face is pale and sickly, he's weak
of arm and knee; if trouble came he'd quickly shin up the nearest tree.
No hale man ever loves him; he stirs the sportsman's wrath; the whole
world kicks and shoves him and shoos him from the path. For who can
love a duffer so pallid, weak and thin, who seems resigned to suffer
and let folks rub it in? Yet though he's down to zero in fellow-men's
esteem, this fellow is a hero and that's no winter dream. Year after
year he's toiling, as toiled the slaves of Rome, to keep the pot
a-boiling in his old mother's home. Through years of gloom and
sickness he kept the wolf away; for him no tailored slickness, for him
no brave array; for him no cheerful vision of wife and kids a few; for
him no dreams Elysian--just toil, the long years through! Forever
trying, straining, to sidestep debtors' woes, unnoticed, uncomplaining,
the little Strong Man goes!

THE SNOWY DAY

I like to watch the children play, upon a wintry, snowy day; like
little elves they run about, and leap and slide, and laugh and shout.
This side of heaven can there be such pure and unmixed ecstacy? I lean
upon ye rustic stile, and watch the children with a smile, and think
upon a vanished day, when I, as joyous, used to play, when all the