"There's nothing left for me in life--nothing at all," he said as he
tossed in bed while the thunder roared and the storm beat down the
shrubs. "How futile life is--'Youth's a dream, middle age a delusion, old
age a mistake!'" he kept repeating to himself in quotation. "What does
one get out of it? Nothing--nothing--nothing! It's all a poor show at the
best, and yet--is it? Is it all so bad? Is it all so poor and gaunt and
hopeless? Isn't there anything in it for the man who gives and does his
best?"
Suddenly there came upon him the conviction that life is only futile to
the futile, that it is only a failure to those who prove themselves
incompetent, selfish and sordid; but to those who live life as it ought
to be lived, there is no such thing as failure, or defeat, or penalty, or
remorse or punishment. Because the straight man has only good ends to
serve, he has no failures; though he may have disappointments, he has no
defeats; for the true secret of life is to be content with what is
decreed, to earn bread and make store only as conscience directs, and not
to set one's heart on material things.
He got out of bed soon after daylight, dressed, and went to the stable
and hitched his horse to the buggy.
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