I KNOW a crippled woman who lives through years of pain with patience superhuman—for ne’er does she complain. An endless torture rages throughout her stricken frame; an hour would seem like ages if I endured the same. Sometimes I call upon her to ask her how she stacks; it is her point of honor to utter no alacks; she hands out no alases, but says she’s feeling gay, and every hour that passes brings some new joy her way. “I’m all serene, old chappie,” she says, “as you can see; my heart is always happy, the Lord’s so good to me!” Thus chortles pain-racked Auntie, and says it with a smile; and when I leave her shanty I kick myself a while. For I am strong and scrappy; I’m sound in wind and limb; and yet I’m seldom happy; I wail a graveyard hymn; whene’er I meet reverses my howls are agonized; I say, with bitter curses, the gods are subsidized. When life seems like December, a thing of gloom and care, I wish I could remember old Auntie in her chair, forget my whinings hateful, and that wan shut-in see, who says that she is grateful, “the Lord’s so good to me!”