THE melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year, when you,
determined to be glum, produce the flowing tear, when you refuse to see
the joys surrounding every gent, and thus discourage other boys, and
stir up discontent. A grouch will travel far and long before its work is
done; and it will queer the hopeful song, and spoil all kinds of fun.
Men start downtown with buoyant tread, and things seem on the boom; then
you come forth with blistered head, and fill them up with gloom. There’d
be no melancholy days, our lives would all be fair, if it were not for
sorehead jays who always preach despair. We’d shake off every kind of
grief if Jonah didn’t come, the pessimist who holds a brief for all
things on the bum. So, if you really cannot rise above the sob and wail,
and see the azure in the skies, and hear the nightingale, let some dark
cave be your abode, where men can’t hear your howl, and let your
comrades be the toad, the raven, and the owl.
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