Highways And Byways.

The highways wind triumphant over
saddle, spur and crest,
The country's crowded commerce to
convey:
And the traffic is the measure of the
gear that men love best,
Of fat profits and prosperity to-day.
But there's dust and heat and turmoil,
there's the sweat that buys success:
Discomfort in the clamour of the
crowd.
There's a heart-break in the faces of
the folk who closely press
In pursuit of futile wealth with
shoulders bowed.
Seek the loveliness of byways, find
their green, lush quietude,
Dawdling 'neath the dappled shadows
of their trees:
They have pleasances with varied joys
to suit your changing mood
Where you may quaff your ale and
take your ease.
Though Success hastes down the high-
way and leaves you sitting there,
Let him go in peace (God rest his
fatted soul!)
No gift in his possession can with hap-
piness compare
And you find it in the byways as you
bide contented there,
With your nut-brown maid, the sunshine
—and your bowl.

—R. Morant.

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