I STAND by my window alone, and look at the people go by, pursuing the
shimmering bone, which is so elusive and shy. Pursuing the beckoning
plunk, and no one can make them believe that rubles and kopecks are
junk, vain baubles got up to deceive. Their faces are haggard and sad,
from weariness often they reel, pursuing the succulent scad, pursuing
the wandering wheel. And many are there in the throng who have all the
money they need, and still they go racking along, inspired by the demon
of greed. “To put some more bucks in the chest,” they sigh, as they
toil, “would be grand;” the beauty and blessing of rest is something
they don’t understand. We struggle and strain all our years, and wear
out our bodies and brains, and when we are stretched on our biers, what
profit we then by our pains? The lawyers come down with a whoop, and
rake in our bundle of scrip, and plaster a lien on the coop before our
poor orphans can yip. I stand at my window again, and see the poor folks
as they trail, pursuing the yammering yen, pursuing the conquering kale;
and sorrow is filling my breast, regret that the people won’t know the
infinite blessing of rest, that solace for heartache and woe.
[Illustration]
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