There you prove your worth, if ever.

You must live and face the day, and face each succeeding day,
realizing that “the moving finger writes, and having writ moves on,
nor all your tears shall blot a line of it.”

Heroes are born, but it is calamity that discovers them.

Once in Western Kansas, in the early Eighties, I saw a loaded
four-horse wagon skid and topple in going across a gully.

The driver sprang from his seat and tried to hold the wagon upright.

The weight was too great for his strength, powerful man though he was.

The horses swerved down the ditch instead of crossing it, and the
overturning wagon caught the man and pinned him to the ground.

Half a dozen of us sprang from our horses. After much effort the
tangled animals were unhitched and the wagon was righted.

The man was dead.

In the wagon were the wife and six children, the oldest child a boy of
fifteen. All were safely caught in the canvas top and escaped unhurt.
We camped there—not knowing what else to do.

We straightened the mangled form of the dead, and covered the body
with a blanket.