BY ELLA WHEELER

Laugh, and the world laughs with you ;
    Weep, and you weep alone ;
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
    But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer ;
    Sighit is lost on the air ;
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
    But are slow to voice your care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you ;
    Grieve, and they turn and go ;
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
    But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many ;
    Be sad, and you lose them all ;
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
    But alone you must drink life's gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded ;
    Fast, and the world goes by ;
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
    But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
    For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
    Through the narrow aisles of pain.

                                      Dorcas Magazine