f doing the work which lies closest
to the heart, the work for which one is best fitted. The happy man is he
who knows his limitations, yet bows to no false gods.

MacBean is not happy. He is overridden by his appetites, and to satisfy
them he writes stuff that in his heart he despises.

Saxon Dane is not happy. His dream exceeds his grasp. His twisted,
tortured phrases mock the vague grandiosity of his visions.

I am happy. My talent is proportioned to my ambition. The things I like
to write are the things I like to read. I prefer the lesser poets to the
greater, the cackle of the barnyard fowl to the scream of the eagle. I
lack the divinity of discontent.

True Contentment comes from within. It dominates circumstance. It is
resignation wedded to philosophy, a Christian quality seldom attained
except by the old.

There is such an one I sometimes see being wheeled about in the
Luxembourg. His face is beautiful in its thankfulness.

The Contented Man

"How good God is to me," he said;
"For have I not a mansion tall,
With trees and lawns of velvet tread,
And happy helpers at my call?
With beauty is my life abrim,
With tranquil hours and dreams apart;
You wonder that I yield to Him
That best of prayers, a grateful heart?"

"How good God is to me," he said;
"For look! though gone is all my wealth,
How sweet it is to earn one's bread
With brawny arms and brimming health.
Oh, now I know the joy of strife!
To sleep so sound, to wake so fit.
Ah yes, how glorious is life!
I thank Him for each day of it."

"How good God is to me," he said;
"Though health and wealth are gone, it's true;
Things might be worse, I might be dead,
And here I'm living, laughing too.
Serene beneath the evening sky
I wait, and every man's my friend;
God's most contented man am I . . .
He keeps me smiling to the End."

To-day the basin of the Luxembourg is bright with little boats. Hundreds
of happy children romp around it. Little ones everywhere; yet there is
no other city with so many childless homes.

The Spirit of the Unborn Babe

The Spirit of the Unborn Babe peered through the window-pane,
Peered through the window-pane that glowed like beacon in the night;
For, oh, the sky was desolate and wild with wind and rain;
And how the little room was crammed with coziness and ligh