Yet sooner or later the hour will come
When its chips are thrown to the sod.

Is it wise, then, say, in the waning day,
When the vessel is crack'd and old,
To cherish the battered potter's clay
As though it were virgin gold?
Take care of yourself, dull, boorish elf,
Though prudent and sage you seem;
Your pitcher will break on the musty shelf,
And mine by the dazzling stream.


I had sense sufficient to see the uselessness of attempting to be other
than I was. In these days of fierce competition there was no chance for
me--opportunity, not talent, was the main requisite. Fate had thought fit
to deny me even one advantage or opportunity, thus I was helpless. I set
to work to cut my coat according to my cloth. I manfully endeavoured to
squeeze my spirit into "that state of life into which it has pleased God
to call me". I crushed, compressed, and bruised, but as fast as I managed
it on one side it burst out on another, and defied me to cram it into the
narrow box of Possum Gully.


The restless throbbings and burnings
That hope unsatisfied brings,
The weary longings and yearnings
For the mystical better things,
Are the sands on which is reflected
The pitiless moving lake,