Be the Best of Whatever You Are

Front matter

IF you can't be the highway, then just be a trail, If you can't be the sun, be a star; For it isn't by size that you win or you fail— Be the best of whatever you are! >> Douglas Malloch

BE THE BEST OF WHATEVER YOU ARE

by

Be the Best of Whatever You Are

Be the Best of Whatever You Are

If you can't be a pine on the top of the hill Be a scrub in the valley—but be The best little scrub by the side of the rill, Be a bush if you can't be a tree. If you can't be a bush be a bit of the grass, Doing something for somebody's sake. If you can't be a muskie then just be a bass, But the liveliest bass in the lake.

We can't all be captains, some have to be crew, There's something for all of us here, There's big work and little for people to do, And the task we must do is the near. If you can't be the highway then just be a trail, If you can't be the sun be a star, For it isn't by size that you win or you fail— Be the best of whatever you are!

All Together

All Together

I'm sure a band must like to play. I don't mean men who blow the things Or pound the drum. I mean the way The slide trombone just sings and sings, And then the proud cornet, tut-tut, Joins in, and all the others—but I'm sure it makes some difference whether They are all playing all together.

If each should try so loud to play That no one else was ever heard, The drum to roar, the brass to bray— Well, wouldn't that be quite absurd? Though that would make a lot of noise, That isn't what the world enjoys— It makes a lot of difference whether They all are playing all together.

And in an office, in a mill, A bank, a factory, a store, What makes it music, always will, Is not the wage you're working for, Is not your title nor your size, But folks who try to harmonize! For toil just seems to slip its tether When all are working all together.

Bill Brown

Bill Brown

Bill Brown made a million, Bill Brown, think of that, A boy, you remember, as poor as a rat, Who hoed for the neighbors, did jobs by the day; Well, Bill's made a million, or near it, they say. You can't understand it? Well, neither could I, And then I remembered, and now I know why: The bell might be ringin', the dinner-horn blow, But Bill always hoed to the end of the row.

Bill worked for my father, you maybe recall; He wasn't a wonder, not that, not at all; He couldn't out-hoe me, or cover more ground, Or hoe any cleaner, or beat me around; In fact I was better one way that I knew— Gettin' back to the house when the dinner-horn blew. One toot from the kitchen and home I would go; But Bill always hoed to the end of the row.

We used to get hungry out there in the corn. You talk about music, what equals a horn, A horn yellin' dinner, tomatoes and beans, And pork and potatoes and gravy and greens? I ain't blamin' no one for quittin' on time; To stop with the whistle, that ain't any crime. But, as for that million—well, this much I know: That Bill always hoed to the end of the row.

Butter Fingers

Butter Fingers

When we played at one old cat, Or chose up sides, and things like that, There were days we dropped the ball, Couldn't make an out at all. Don't know why, we couldn't tell, But how all the kids would yell, "Butter fingers."

Other days we captured flies, Tagged out runners twice our size, Caught the pitcher's outs and drops, Made those great one-handed stops, Didn't seem to miss a thing, Never heard a critic sing, "Butter fingers."

But, I might as well confess, We didn't know and couldn't guess, Never really understood, Why our game was bad or good— Why we played our best today, Yet tomorrow heard them say, "Butter fingers."

That's the reason, in the game Men call life, I'm slow to blame

Those who fumble this or that Be it life or one old cat. Just remember, when they fall, Days that you yourself were all "Butter fingers."

The Difference in Men

The Difference in Men

This is the difference that I Have found in men: Though many turn, Forsake the journey when they learn The road is rough, the hill is high, There always are a few who try.

This is the difference I find: There always are a few who press Onward and upward to success, When other fellows fall behind Because the weather grows unkind.

This is the difference: To do, To dare, to win, brave hearts require. Oh, I have watched a thousand tire For one that saw the journey through— And yet there always are a few.

Capital and Labor

Capital and Labor

I've heard a lot of theories, The rights of "capital", and "labor's"; But why two names for such as these, When one would do, and that one "neighbors"? I wouldn't work for any man Who wasn't that, or wouldn't hire him. If someone talked of class or clan I'd either quit him, or I'd fire him.

There are a lot of honest men Employing men—why work for others? And, if I labored for one, then I'd think of him and me as brothers. There are a lot of right good lads; Be right yourself and you will find them, As fine young fellows as their dads; I'd hire them and I'd stand behind them.

And then we'd work together, try To make our work, our product, vital. It wouldn't matter much if I Or he should wear the bigger title. I'd work for him or he for me— The only thing that mattered whether We had the common sense to see We two are working here together.

Dry Your Eyes

Dry Your Eyes

This morning in the barber's chair I learned a lesson, found a truth I had not thought of in my youth. You would not think to find it there, And yet I saw, and so may you, A lesson in a plain shampoo.

The truth was this: Though barbers try To dry your face when they are done, You'll find you are the only one To get the soap-suds from your eye. The barber is a clever elf, But you must dry your eyes yourself.

You'll have some sorrow now and then, A disappointment, or a grief, To try your strength, to test belief, And many women, many men, Will come with words of sympathy— And that is splendid, I agree.

And yet, when bowed beside your dead, When crushed with disappointment, you, And no one else, can pull you through— You are the one to lift your head, Put grief behind you, seek the dawn, And dry your eyes, and stumble on.

Climbing

Climbing

I saw a hill, and on it men, And some were high, and some were higher, And some were even higher then; So always do a few aspire. Halfway were some content to rest, But some had onward, upward, pressed, And one had found the eagle’s nest, Had fought the bird, and overcome it, And fixed his banner on the summit.

I shouted, “Brother, how so high?” Then shouted back the unafraid one, “By road and trail, and bye and bye, A trail no more, I went and made one!” No fairy let him down a stair; He was not legislated there; He had his losses, had his care; If wrong his judgment, poor his guess, He climbed on failures to success.

I saw a hill, that hill was life, And in the valley heard complaining; Some called it sorrow, called it strife, Its inequality maintaining. And yet it seemed like any hill; A few were climbing with a will,

Each moment climbing higher still— For fame or fortune, wealth or riming, The only way to climb is climbing!

Habits

Habits

I saw a stream among the hills, Where any man might step across; I saw it where the vale it fills, Where angry billows leap and toss; And then I whispered, “I suppose That so it is a habit grows.”

Remember, always, will you, son, A habit grows as grows a stream? Not suddenly a deed is done; We evil think, we evil dream, Before we ever evil do; We form our habits, I and you.

Oh, let us rightly think and act While down the years we yet may look, For age is like a cataract And youth is like a running brook. If you are on the evil side Step back, before the stream grows wide.

Draw, Play, Discard

Draw, Play, Discard

There is a pastime known to some, A little game entitled rhum, That even kings consent to play Upon a dark and rainy day. For games and tales and other things Are matters even fit for kings, If from that game or tale or what A little lesson may be got. Though fools will end as they begin And not a moral find therein, With ev’ry card they chance to turn The wise a greater wisdom learn.

There are a half a dozen ways To play at rhum on rainy days, For mortals seem to disagree Just what the method ought to be, The deal if seven, eight or nine, For you have your way, I have mine. But one thing all agreed upon In ev’ry region I have gone: That first you draw, and then you play, And then you throw a card away, Yes, draw, play, discard, is the rule Of king and subject, sage and fool.

And in that rule the lesson lies That proves the wisdom of the wise. If men would only play the game, The mighty game of life, the same, Then more would win and fewer fail, Whatever troubles might assail. Fate deals us cards we cannot use, And yet our cards we still may choose, Discarding errors, habits, sins, Until we hold a hand that wins, Retaining only what is best, Until each card fits all the rest.

Folks Might Talk

Folks Might Talk

Folks might talk if you should dare Somethin’ different to wear; Folks might talk perhaps if you Somethin’ different should do; How you speak or how you walk Or how you look, some folks might talk.

Folks might talk, and always will; Morphine couldn’t keep ’em still. Folks might talk—but listen, son: Very little’s ever done By the ones who try to walk Day by day so folks won't talk.

Environment

Environment

We talk too much about “environment”, The ever-ready alibi for all The failures of mankind; yet great or small We are not made by luck or accident. We win or lose in life, we rise or fall, As we possess that something mortals call “Ambition”, name for noble discontent.

The lily wakens in a world of mire, Where coward weeds submerge, nor find the air; The lily longs to be a lily fair And seeks the sun above, and does not tire. Amid the mud she builds her chapel there, Her pure white altar lays, and does not care— Above the swamp she lifts her holy spire.

And all the history of all the men, The forward men who made us what we are, Records no man environment could bar From what he sought with sword or song or pen. To him who has a goal what goal is far? Who cares for earth whose eyes are on a star? His dream makes every night a day again!

Not what we are decides, but what we do! We lose or win in life, we fall or rise,

According to the place we fix our eyes— The earth around our feet, or heavens blue. He fails the worst who nothing ever tries, Who is himself whate’er around him lies— Oh, make your world, let not your world make you!

If I Shined Shoes

If I Shined Shoes

If I shined shoes (and lots of good men do), I'd sometime like to shine ’em up for you! Because, if I shined shoes (and some men must), I know Id fleck away each speck of dust, I'd wipe away the memories of the street, I'd put a shine on sad and weary feet, On rich or poor, it wouldn’t matter whose, If I shined shoes.

Though other men might have some higher task, Joy, after all, is not a thing to ask But thing to win—I’m sure that joy will dwell In anything that anyone does well. I’d shine ’em up, and shine ’em up so fine That folks would say, “That really 7s a shine!” I’d find the joy that lots of workers lose, If I shined shoes.

Farming the Earth

Farming the Earth

There may be nothing wrong with you, The way you live, the work you do, But I can very plainly see Exactly what is wrong with me: It isn’t that I’m indolent Or dodging duty my intent; I work as hard as anyone, And yet I get so little done. The morning goes, the noon is here, Before I know the night is near, And all around me, I regret, Are things I haven’t finished yet.

If I could just get organized! I oftentimes have realized Not all that matters is the man; The man must also have a plan. The fellows doing mighty deeds Are reaping crops by planting seeds; And planting isn’t all they do, They sow the seed and see it through; They choose their ground, however small, And then they cultivate it all; And they are men of greater worth Than those who try to farm the earth.

With you there may be nothing wrong, But here’s my trouble right along: I do the things that don’t amount To very much, of no account, And let a lot of matters go That really are important, though. I nibble this, I nibble that, But never finish what I’m at. I work as hard as anyone, And yet I get so little done. I’d do so much you'd be surprised, If I could just get organized.

Finish the Task

Finish the Task

Here is a great cathedral, here is a noble wall, Here is a spire all lit with fire as the rays of the sunset fall— And builders have built them all.

Not by some mighty magic the roofs of the world were made; Men have dreamed and tools have gleamed and hands have worked at their trade— With hearts that were unafraid.

What if they grew discouraged, what if they ceased their song, Counted the brick and turned heart-sick and said that the plan was wrong?— Yes, said it would take too long?

You who would master knowledge, you who would capture fame, Men have dreamed and tools have gleamed and red was the forge’s flame— And so you must build the same.

Not by some mighty magic the splendor of life is spun, Though your fingers ache, the brick you must take and must lay them one by one— And work till the thing is done.

Fruit or Weeds

Fruit or Weeds

To do each day allotted tasks, To come each night to well-earned rest— No matter what a mortal asks, He finds this fortune always best. Who lives for leisure does not know The only leisure worth the while Comes after labor—only so We learn to smile,

I have seen those who need not toil; And often I have pitied more Than any farmer tilling soil, Or any merchant keeping store, Or those who mould, or those who write, The man with naught to do but play, Who saw behind him every night An empty day.

For weeds will grow in idle ground, In idle acres, idle lives; Where someone labors fruit is found, Where hands are busy beauty thrives. Your life each day may bloom with deeds, Your life each day new beauty bear; On you depends if fruit or weeds Shall flourish there.

Good Morning

Good Morning

He always said "Good Morning!" when to work we gathered in, He seemed to think "Good Morning!" was a good way to begin— "Good Morning!" to the humble, and "Good Morning!" to the high; Why, you couldn't ever grumble at "Good Morning!" from a guy.

Just his cap he used to doff us and he used to wave his hand, But it started off the office—well, you may not understand, But it sort of smoothed the wrinkle you had gathered overnight, There was something in the twinkle of his eye that set you right.

And the meanest little rabbit and the big boss stern and sad Somehow sort of got the habit the "Good Morning!" fellow had. For it seemed to lighten labor, though our labor was a pile, Just to greet an office neighbor with "Good Morning!" and a smile.

Well, he doesn't say "Good Morning!" in the office any more, For one day he saw the morning break upon a brighter shore. But I'll bet that golden mroning that the angels who await Shouted to his soul, "Good Morning!" when they saw him at the gate.

Only Now and Then

Only Now and Then

Now and then a war is won in a single fight, Now and then a thing is done in a day or night. Even fame, or fortune blind, thus will come to men; But it happens, you will find, only now and then.

Now and then a man achieves honor and acclaim, Now and then the world believes that by luck they came. No one knows about the years, things that might have been, No one knows about the tears, bitter now and then.

Now and then men talk of chance, mourn about their lot. Now and then good men advance, with a chance or not! Knuckle down and buckle in, try, and try again! Wishers and complainers win only now and then.

The Fighting Few

The Fighting Few

Roses beside the dusty road And lilies in the darkest pool; I say that what makes sage or fool Is not his place, is not his load, But just his soul, the soul inside Not discontent, nor satisfied

The rosebud does not always find Itself within a garden fair. If roses only blossomed where The sun was bright, the breeze was kind, The rose would die, for what survives? The things that battle for their lives.

And souls that have to fight for place, Yes, souls like lilies in the mud, And not its men of royal blood Shall long perpetuate a race. What sires the greatest sons will give? The sires that have to fight to live.

The rose that seldom feels the dew, The lily in the darkest vale, The ship that needs to breast the gale— Thank God you're of the fighting few! Remember what gives men their might Are things for which they have to fight.

Good Timber

Good Timber

The tree that never had to fight For sun and sky and air and light, That stood upon the open plain And always had its share of rain, Never became a forest king But lived and died a scrubby thing.

The man who never had to toil To heaven from the common soil, Who never had to win his share Of sun and sky and light and air, Never became a manly man, But lived and died as he began.

Good timber does not grow in ease; The stronger wind the tougher trees, The farther sky the greater length, The more the storm the more the strength; By sun and cold, by rains and snows, In tree or man good timber grows.

Where thickest stands the forest growth We find the patriarchs of both; And they hold converse with the stars Whose broken branches show the scars Of many winds and much of strife— This is the common law of life.

Give Them the Best

Give Them the Best

Sure they will scoff at your scheming, Sure they will question your plan, Sure they will laugh at your dreaming, So ev’ry dreamer began. Ask of the fellows who do things, Ask of the fellows who won: What thought the world of the new things, Things that had never been done? Scheme for them, dream for them, labor, Whether they want it or not: Pencil or chisel or sabre, Give them the best you have got!

Sure they will pass it unheeded, This that is soul of your soul, Grudging the word that is needed Helping you on to the goal. Must I with something pursue them, Begging from door unto door? When what is common will do them, Why should I offer them more? Why? In achieving is living! Why? Are your visions forgot? Give for the sake of the giving! Give them the best you have got!

Though the whole office refuses, Though you are scorned by the host, You are the fellow who loses When you do less than the most. Stop not for sulking or sorrow, Keep at the thing you are at— Doing your best, that tomorrow You may do better than that. If to your goal you are going It does not matter a lot: Still you are gaining and growing— Give them the best you have got!

Good Enough

Good Enough

I saw some builders laying brick, Where one was needed, two; The wall was twenty inches thick, Where ten or twelve would do; And some who saw the builders build With much of merriment were filled, Because the work were quickly done If they had laid not two, but one.

The wall they builded twice too strong, Twice greater than the need. Yet who shall say they builded wrong Who built so well indeed? The hour may come they wish to rear A greater super-structure here, Perhaps some storm some later day Shall prove they built the better way.

For something only good enough Is little good at all; Yes, men must build of better stuff Than that, who build a wall. Yes, men must build their ships that sail Not for the zephyr but the gale, And men must build each hope that gleams For greater needs and larger dreams.

You cannot build a thing too well. Remember, will you, son? I doubt if any structure fell That was too nobly done. A little work may get you through, A little study seem to do, But good enough is not the test— Some moment will demand the best.

Life Is a Mirror

Life Is a Mirror

Life is a mirror—smile at it, And it will smile at you, Will give you back a little bit Of everything you do. The world will give you frown for frown And give you grin for grin, And things look up or things look down As you look in.

Life is a mirror—give it joy, And joy you'll likely find; For everything you do, my boy, Is mirrored in the mind. Unkindness, kindness, hate or love, You find in anyone Are, after all, reflections of Yourself, my son.

Lift Your Aim

Lift Your Aim

We shot our arrows toward the sun Beside the castle wall. His arrow was the highest one, The highest one of all. Another archer said, “You win.” He answered, “No, I but begin. No archer wins, or ever will; He goes on aiming higher still.”

We never win, we only make A mark more near the skies, Keep shooting for the shooting’s sake, Not just to win the prize. The thing today we call the best Tomorrow is tomorrow’s test: We never win, we merely find Another mark to leave behind.

This makes us archers, makes us men, And that is all that will: To shoot, and then to aim again A little higher still. However high your arrow went, Be not with one success content: Still higher look! Look not below, But lift your aim, and bend the bow!

A Good One

A Good One

One man is a king, and another a cook, Another a leader of leaders; One man prints a sign, and another a book, But each has his circle of readers. The man with a pick, or the man with a pen, Whichever he is isn’t vital; It’s easy to tell the importance of men, And it isn’t a matter of title.

The world has experienced curious kings, Kings, frankly, who flounder and blunder; The world has had cooks who made excellent things, Whose soups were an absolute wonder. So that’s the distinction that matters the most, In either the doctor or digger. Bad king or good cook—which the better can boast, Yes, which of the two is the bigger?

The man on the bridge or the deck of a boat, What counts is the sort of a sailor. I’m certain of this, that a knave in a coat Is less of a man than the tailor. A fool now and then may look down upon me; I never have yet understood one; What matters what any man happens to be, As long as a man is a good one?

Hand and Heart

Hand and Heart

The vision that the painter dreams Upon the canvas he must trace; In every art it always seems That labor, too, must have its place. We need not argue which the part Of larger value, hand or heart; But this I know, that neither one Without the other gets things done.

The architect may nobly plan, But labor places stone on stone. I only know that neither man Can build the edifice alone. I am not here to say—nor ask— Which has the more important task; I know that neither one of these Shall lift one tow’r above the trees.

An empire or a cottage roof, A table or cathedral spire, Why need we cry aloud for proof If hand or heart they more require? We know this much: To make all things The pencil moves, the hammer swings, That both of these men must employ, And all may feel an equal joy.

So I would say to labor, toil With lighter heart and larger view, And say to learning, not for spoil Alone achieve the things you do, And say to both, to both be fair, Your conduct and your corners square, Knowing full well that neither one Without the other gets things done.

A Bowl of Roses

A Bowl of Roses

Upon her desk a bowl of roses, A merry picture on the wall— Oh, life is not what grief supposes, Life has its roses, after all. There are so many things of beauty, There are so many things so fair, That there is joy in every duty, And something sweet in every care.

Each day we have our tasks around us, Each day we have our work to do, And yet I pray we all have found us, Amid our toil, the roses, too. Kind thoughts the heavy load will lighten— Life’s hardest road is picturesque To her who keeps, her day to brighten, A bowl of roses on her desk.

Hearsay

Hearsay

In every town, in every street, In nearly every house, you meet A little imp who wriggles in, With half a sneer and half a grin, And climbs upon your rocking-chair, Or creeps upon you anywhere, And, when he gets you very near, Just whispers something in your ear, Some rumor of another’s shame— And little “Hearsay” is his name.

He never really claims to know; He’s only “heard” that it is so; And then he whispers it to you, So you will go and whisper, too. For, if enough will pass along, The rumor, even though it’s wrong— If John tells Henry, Henry Joe, And Joe tells Mary, Mary Flo, And Flo tells Mildred, Mildred Ruth— It very soon may pass for truth.

You understand, this little elf, He doesn’t say he knows, himself. He doesn’t claim it’s really true— He only whispers it to you,

Because he knows you'll go and tell Some other whisperer as well; And so, before the setting sun, He gets the devil’s mischief done, And there is less of joy and good Around your little neighborhood.

Look out for Hearsay! When he sneaks Inside the house, and slander speaks, Just ask the proof in every case. Just ask the name and date and place, And, if he says he only “heard”, Declare you don’t believe a word; And tell him you will not repeat The silly chatter of the street— However gossips smile and smirk, Refuse to do the devil’s work.

Happy Days

Happy Days

Happy days—they seem to some Something always yet to come When they never need to toil, When they're done with tool and soil, When they have a little more Money than they had before, When they have the wealth to buy Pleasures present days deny. Happy days—they always seem To the dreamer but a dream.

Yet the fellow at a bench Busy with a saw or wrench, And the fellow following Turning furrows in the spring— Surely there is joy in this That they never need to miss, Humming pulley, singing bird, Always all around them heard. Happy days are never far— All around us always are.

Happy days! Our happiness (Always nearer than we guess) We must gather as we go Through the shop, along the row. We who wait ourselves deceive:

Having joy, for joy we grieve Till our joy is left behind. It may happen we shall find, Looking back to bench or plow, That our happy days were now.

Progress

Progress

On ev’ry road, where’er it lead, Through the green wood, across the plain, We pause, the signs of old to read Before we journey on again— Consult the stars, the mountains dumb, To learn how far our feet have come.

Life is a journey. Let us pause Tonight when dusky eve departs, Unmoved by sneers or men’s applause, And ask the question of our hearts: Yea, are we farther on the way Today, tonight, than yesterday?