And the events of these changing seasons ring in so rapidly,
and in so inevitable a fashion, that the whole cycle runs like a real
story along the page.



STRIFE

_With the first faint note out of distance flung,
From the moment man hears the siren call
Of Victory's bugle, which sounds for all,
To his inner self the promise is made
To weary not, rest not, but all unafraid
Press on--till for him the paean be sung.

The song for the victor is sweet, is sweet--
Yet to the music a memory clings
Of trampled nestlings, of broken wings,
And of faces white with defeat!_
--ELIZABETH D. PRESTON




CHAPTER I

"DEAN FUNNYBONE"

_Nature they say, doth dote,
And cannot make a man