UNKNOWN

Kaipara and Waitemata Echo, 23 September 1920, Page 3

UNKNOWN

This world's so fine and dandy that life should be a grin, there's always sun■hine handy for those who'd wade therein. As cheerful as a colt is, I do m/ daily toil, there always is a poultice for every boil. I brood not lest disaster of life should ruin make, there is a mustard plaster for every human ache. If life, at any juncture, seems desolate and grim, and hope receives a puncture, then let her run on the rim, and laugh at Old Man Sorrow and bet your Sunday lid that things will run to-morrow well as they ever did' I have the giddy habit of giving grief a slap, if there's a smile I nab it and paste it on my map. The little tin-horn troubles that drive some men insane to me are vagrant bubbles, they're empty things and vain. And when full-grown afflictions come down in cataracts I look on them as fictions that masquerade as facts. I fire them in a hurry, I bid them loop the loops, I say to them "For worry I do not care three whoops." For joy's the line I trade in, the goods in which I deal, it is the stuff I wade in to back my daily spiel.