Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 190, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 August 1915 — The Bitter and the Sweet [ARTICLE]

The Bitter and the Sweet

Life to most of us reduces Itself to a quest of happiness, yet probably but one in a hundred attains the heart’s desire. It is an old story that realisation falls Infinitely lower than anticipation. Happiness is akin to love in that it often eludes pursuit; like love again It is also much a matter of temperament, for many who have apparently every reason (or, so we think) to be happy are unhappy, while others whp ought by all rules t* be m!r'*~”ble float joyously along on the bubbling sea of their troubles. Life indeed requires an art, and some of us declare that happiness Is the whole of it. AU down life’s high road we meet with those who calmly insist that it is but a master of middle ways. Extremes are false, things not so dark as we fear nor yet so bright as we fondly hope. CarefuUy they tear off the buds with the thorns and assure us that the tree of life is but a smooth wand and that sorrow should not be ours any more thru is unqu n, lfled joy. Doubtless their theory, supported by prudent arguments, makes for much placid comfort. It must be gratifying indeed to be able to think, during those ghastly moments of darkness which come to ,us all at times, that we are n~t so unfortunate as we Imagine, that somewhere, somehow, not far from us is the promise of radiant dawn. When the heart bleeds, when hops files and a sense of loss seems our whole being, surely it must be good to say that misery does not exist, that J>y an effort of our will this apparent agony may pass, that all the pain is only of our fancy and that within lies the secret of its death.

Yet there is another side of this cold wisdom, and a question, born of this theory, insistently clamors for hearing. If we regard this rule as our refuge and comfort in trouble, must we not be consistent and measure all our joys and ambitions in the same sane way? Must we not then curb that gladness which would leap In our hearts and when love and hope and the sense of pleasure make our pulses throb to bursting, must we not then apply this rule and declare that all this madness, all this exhilaration, all this passion of happiness is but a delusion, or, falling here, must we not lose the power to c-~vince ourselves that misery does not exist? Else would relief from shadow rob us of sunshine —all our castles of delight would crumble before our longing eyes and all the charm of life be shorn with ruthless hand. Never to suffer —yes, but the price!—never to walk in the flowery way of life’s great garden! Ah, who would chcose? To forego the power of intense enjoyment, or, keeping it, retain a capacity for pain! For the glory of a few swift-passing joys, to wander at times through the dungeons of despair! Is the joy worth the sigh; is the pleasure so much great-’*. pn r compellinj than its bitter.aftermath of grief, that we can dare all for a brief spell of happiness? And, can we choose? Can we so rule ourselves that we may order the very throbs of our faulty hearts? It is so easy to preach, so difficult to follow a wise counsel. For countless centuriesthe norma! heart has rebelled against the teaching of those whose temperaments make them insensible to sorrow, proof against joy and ever strangers to the keen emotions which wear and tear, but fill and glorify the lives of those who welcome them. “The heart that is soonest awake to the flower is the first to be touched by the thorn.” True! Every word of it. But is not the flower worth seeking in spite of thorns? Perhaps its petals are fairer, its glowing heart of gold but richer by contrast to the thorns which scratch and wound, resist, but may not wholly deter the eager hand which gathers it All that we look for, do we only find, for the eyes of the heart are sharp and clear, but never do they lie to us, and as we are born so do we suffer, rejoice or stagnate. All we may do is, at most, to accept the fashion of our temperaments and, in accepting, try to draw from them their best, for if it were not almost an impiety to claim happiness as a right, it would be for sox. e of us a futile prayer.

The right way to cook oatmeal: Put a teaspoonful of salt in a quart of water over the fire, in the upper part of a double boiler. As soon as it boils briskly, sprinkle the oatmeal in slowly. Do not stir but let it boll briskly for a few minutes, then set it in the lower half of the boiler, which should contain hot water; cover it and let it bubble slowly, without stirring, for four or five hours at the least. If wanted for breakfast it should be cooked the day before and then finished with as much time as you can allow in the morning.