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Show r 1 Rippling' j Rhymes j By WALT MASON. BORX THAT AVAY. Some folks aro born with spirits sour, tholr nuturo Is to whlno; the planets, at their natal hour, wore lnn-ly lnn-ly out of lino. They oamo complaining complain-ing to the earth, and squawk throuph all their days, and they can see no sense In mirth, they frown oh joyous jays. They choose the grimmest nor: of creed that filled with threats of pain; for thoi Is naught will fit their need, that's pleasant, kind or sane. They arc the sad and gloomy frett-ks who groan with every breath, who see the bloom on maiden cheeks tho talk of worms and doath. In vain the optimist op-timist may try to cheer up gents llko these; they'll answer with a dismal sigh his gladdest, brightest "whccr.e. They'll say his logic, blithe and brave, la merely spundlng brass; they'll drool a while about tho grave, and claim ai: flesh is grass. They make mo weary and distraught when I with them commune; by them December chill Is brought into the midst of June. And. oh. I piiy such poor guys, who cannot gsyjy laugh, who wipe the briny from their eyes, and quote an epitaph. 00 |