MISFORTUNE punched you in the neck, and knocked you down and tramped you
under; will you survey the gloomy wreck, and stand around and weep, I
wonder? Your hold upon success has slipped, and still you ought to bob
up grinning; for when a man admits he’s whipped, he throws away his
chance of winning. I like to think of John Paul Jones, whose ship was
split from truck to fender; the British asked, in blawsted tones, if he
was ready to surrender. The Yankee mariner replied, “Our ship is sinking
at this writing, but don’t begin to put on side—for we have just begun
our fighting!” There is a motto, luckless lad, that you should paste
inside your bonnet; when this old world seems stern and sad, with
nothing but some Jonahs on it, don’t murmur in a futile way, about
misfortune, bleak and biting, but gird your well known loins and say,
“Great Scott! I’ve just begun my fighting!” The man who won’t admit he’s
licked is bound to win a triumph shining, and all the lemons will be
picked by weak-kneed fellows, fond of whining.
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“CHARGE IT”
“JUST chalk it down,” the poor man said, when he had bought some
boneless bread, and many costly things, his wife and brood of bairns to
feed—the most of which they didn’t need as much as you need wings. He
buys the richest things in town, and always says, “Just chalk it down,
I’ll pay you soon, you bet;” and payday evening finds him broke, his
hard earned plunks gone up in smoke, and still he is in debt. The man
who doesn’t buy for cash lays in all kinds of costly trash, that he
could do without; he spends his coin before it’s earned, and roars about
it when it’s burned—is that your way, old scout? When comes the day of
evil luck the war bag doesn’t hold a buck to keep the wolf away; the
“charge it” plan will work no more at any market, shop, or store—no
goods unless you pay. The poor man for his money sweats, and he should
pay for what he gets, just when he gets the same; then, when he goes his
prunes to buy, and sees how fast the nickels fly, he’ll dodge the
spendthrift game. If you begin to save your stamps, some day, with
teardrops in your lamps, this writer you will thank; when man in grief
and sickness groans there’s naught like having fifteen bones in some
good savings bank.
[Illustration]
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