2
THE CHEMAWA AMERICAN
THE MAN WHO WORKS
''The man that is so far advanced that
he likes the work he is doing," said
Mr. Stoggleton, "has reason to feel hope
ful of himself. I suppose that, the very
great majority of us go through the work
we have in hand the easiest svay we can
and get through it, skipping we'll be glad
when it's finished; but the next job will
be just the same. There will be just
about so many hard places in it, and
then we'll be wishing just the same
that we could g)t through that job.
"The fact appears to be that we are al
ways trying to shirk the present job.
We mean well in x feeble sort of way,
and the next thing we tackle we are go
ing to do right up to the handle, but
wn i 1 we strike that, when that becomes
the present work, do 1't we try to shirk
that too? We do, indeed. And that's
what we do all through li.'i daily put
ting off our best endeavors till to-morrow.
Kind of a miserable thin' to do,
isn't it?
"But occasionally you meet a man
who puts in his best licks every day and
rejoices in the labor. He doesn't care a
continental what the next is going to
bring to him he can handle it.whatever it
is. Just now he's engaged with to-day's
labor, and he does that up thoroughly
and complete and searches out the last
nook and cranny. He isn't trying to see
what he can pass by, but what he can
root out, and he goes home satisfied with
his work, and he's the one man in a
thousand that leads all the rest, and his
pay corresponds with his labors." Ex.
The Navaho Blanket
But in the land of little rain;
Of can you rift and cactus-plain,
An Indian women, short and swart,
This blanket wove with patient art;
And day to day, through the year,
Before her loom, by patterns queer,
She stolidly a story told,
A legend of her people, old.
With thread on thread and line on
line,
She wrought each curious design,
The symbol of the day and night,
Of desert and of mountain height,
Of journey long and storm-beset,
Of village passed and danger met.
Of wind and season, cold and heat,
Of famine harsh and plenty sweet.
Now in this paleface home it lief?,
'Neath careless, unsuspecting eyes.
Which never read the tale that runs,
A course of ancient mystic suns,
To us, is simply many hued,
Of figures barbarous and rude;
Appeals in vain its pictured lore;
An Indian blanket nothing more. .
Edwin L. Sabin,in Ex.
Mark Twain as a humorist is no re
spector of persons, and a story is told oi
him and Bishop Doane which is worth
repeating. It oocured when Mark Twain
was living in Martford, while Dr. Doan
was the rector of an Episcopal church
Twain had listened to one of the goo
doctor's best s -rmins one Sundiu
morning, when he approached him an
said, pilitely: " have enjoyed you,
sermon this morning. I welcome it as
would welcome an old friend. . I nave ;
book in my library that contains over
word of it."
"Impossible, sir" replied the rectoi
indignantly.
"Not at .ill. 1 assure you it is tru
said Twain.
"Then I shall trouble you to send n
that book," rejoined the rector, with di;
nitv.
The next morning Dr. Doane receive
with Mark Twain's compliments, a di
tionary. Ex.