THOUGH now and then our feet descend to byways of despair, we nearly always in the end land right side up with care. I’ve seen a thousand frenzied guys declare that all was lost, there was no hope beneath the skies, this life was but a frost. And then next year I’d see them scoot around in motor cars, each one a-holding in his snoot the richest of cigars. I’ve seen men at the wailing place declare they were undone; no more the cold world could they face, their course, they said, was run. Again I’d see them prance along, all burbling with delight; whatever in their lives was wrong, became at last all right. And so it’s foolishness, my friend, to weep or tear your hair; we nearly always, in the end, land right side up with care. Some call it luck, some providence, and some declare it fate; but there’s a kind, o’erruling sense that makes our tangles straight; and there are watchful eyes that mark our movements as we roam; a hand extended in the dark to guide us safely home. In what direction do you wend? You’ll find the helper there; we nearly always, in the end, land right side up with care.
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