OLD GOMER, of a Kansas town, was never known to wear a frown, or for
man’s pity beg, although he stumps along his way, and does his work from
day to day, upon a wooden leg. And every time he goes out doors he meets
some peevish guy who roars about his evil luck; some fretful gent with
leg of flesh who, when vicissitudes enmesh, proceeds to run amuck.
Strong men with legs of flesh and bone just stand around the streets and
groan, while Gomer pegs along and puts up hay the long hours through,
and sounds his joyous whoopsydo, and makes his life a song. Old Gomer
never sits and broods or seeks the hermit’s solitudes to fill the air
with sighs; there’s no despondency in him! He brags about that basswood
limb as though it were a prize. Sometimes I’m full of woe and grief,
convinced the world brings no relief until a man is dead; and as I wail
that things are wrong I see old Gomer hop along and then I soak my head.
I’ve noticed that the men who growl, the ones who storm around and howl
o’er fate’s unwise decrees, are mostly Fortune’s special pets; and then
the man who never frets is one with red elm knees.
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