IF every day was sunny, with ne’er a cloud in view, we’d soon be
spending money to buy a cloud or two. It always makes me weary when
people say: “Old boy, may all your days be cheery and bright and full of
joy!” If all my days were sunny, existence would seem flat; if I were
fed on honey I’d soon get sick of that. I like a slice of sorrow to hold
me down today, for that will make tomorrow seem fifty times as gay. A
little dose of sickness won’t make me whine or yell; ’twill emphasize
the slickness of life when I am well. A little siege of trouble won’t
put my hopes in pawn, for I’ll be trotting double with joy when it is
gone. Down there in tropic regions where sunshine gleams all day, the
fat and lazy legions just sleep their lives away; there every idle
bumpkin who in the sunshine lies, lives like a yellow pumpkin, and like
a squash he dies. I want my share of changes, my share of ups and downs;
I want a life that ranges from crosses up to crowns.
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