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THE NURSE
The world grows better every year Because some nurse in her little sphere Puts on her apron and smiles and sings And keeps on doing the same old things;
Taking the temperature, giving the pills To remedy mankind’s numerous ills;
Feeding the baby, answering the bells.
Being polite with a heart that rebels.
Longing for home and all the while Wearing the same professional smile;
Blessing the new-born baby’s first breath Closing the eyes that are stilled in death;
Going off duty at seven o’clock Tired, discouraged, and ready to drop.
But called back on special at seven-fifteen With woe in her heart that must not be seen; Morning and evening, and noon and night,
Just doing it over and hoping it’s right.
When we lay down our caps, and cross the bar 0 Lord, will You give us just one little star To wear in our crowns, with our uniforms new In that city above where the Head Nurse is You?
(Author Unknown)
DAY BY DAY
The great Italian sculptor and painter, Michaelangelo, was essentially a sculptor and painted only under protest. He was also a poet and expressed this idea in a sonnet in which he said that in every block of marble he saw an imprisoned idea awaiting the sculptor’s art to be freed. When Michaelangelo wrote that he probably meant just what the mere words imply and no more. Undoubtedly he was thinking of art and not a general philosophy.
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But think of those words — you and I are sculptors in a sense, aren’t we? Not great artists like Michaelangelo — no — but our fate is in our hands — our life is what we make it. We are the moulders of our destiny. In every block of marble he saw an imprisoned idea awaiting the sculptor’s art to be freed. Every day is like that — an¬ other page in our book of life. We can leave it blank, or we can fill it with something worthwhile. As long as we are creatures of free will and as long as the book of our lives, after all, means more to us than anyone else, why not consider each day as a milestone, a slab of marble, and let’s do something worthwhile with it. Each day can he a beautiful tiling, if we make it so.
■ — Don McNeill
THE TOWN OF DON’T YOU WORRY
There’s a town called Don’t you worry On the banks of River Smile,
Where the Cheer-up and Be-happy Blossom sweetly all the while;
Where the Never-grumble flower Blooms beside the fragrant Try,
And the Ne’er-give-up and Patience Point their faces to the sky.
Rustic benches quite enticing You’ll find scattered here and there;
And to each a vine is clinging Called the Frequent-earnest prayer.
Everybody there is happy And is singing all the while.
In the town of Don’t you worry On the banks of River Smile.
(Author Unknown)
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