The Female of the Species

Rudyard Kipling
The Female of the Species.

When the Hymalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted, rends the peasant tooth and nail,
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When Nag, the wayside cobra, hears the careless foot of man,
He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can;
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail,
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.
'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale,
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,
For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away;
But when hunter meets with husband, each confirms the other's tale -
The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man, a bear in most relations, worm and savage otherwise, -
Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact
To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,
To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.
Mirth obscene diverts his anger, Doubt and Pity oft perplex
Him in dealing with an issue to the scandal of The Sex!

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame
Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;
And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,
The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast
May not deal in doubt or pity, must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions, not in these her honor dwells.
She, the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.

She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great
As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate;
And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim
Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

She is wedded to convictions, in default of grosser ties;
Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies! -
He will meet no cool discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,
Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

Unprovoked and awful charges even so the she-bear fights;
Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons, even so the cobra bites;
Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw
And the victim writhes in anguish like the Jesuit with the squaw!

So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer
With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her
Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands
To some God of Abstract Justice which no woman understands.

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him
Must command but may not govern, shall enthral but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,
That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.

Dust if you must!

Dust if you must, but wouldn't it be better
to paint a picture, or write a letter,
bake a cake, or plant a seed.
Ponder the difference between want and need?

Dust if you must, but there is not much time,
with rivers to swim and mountains to climb!
Music to hear, and books to read,
friends to cherish and life to lead.

Dust if you must, but the world's out there
with the sun in your eyes, the wind in your hair,
a flutter of snow, a shower of rain,
this day will not come round again.

Dust if you must, but bear in mind,
old age will come and it's not kind.
And when you go, and go you must,
you, yourself, will make more dust!
Joy and Sorrow

There's driftwood on the lightest waves that blow,
And worthless mud in deepest depths below.
Yet purest pearls upon the surface ride,
And priceless gems lie far beneath the tide.
Rich treasures with the worthless sands do toss.
We everywhere find mingled gold and dross.
So whether we sail high or sink below,
We find some joy, some sorrow, where we go.
-- Colfax Burgoyne Harman. 

The Roots of Violence:
Wealth without work,
Pleasure without conscience,
Knowledge without character,
Commerce without morality,
Science without humanity,
Worship without sacrifice,
Politics without principles.

Mohandas K. Gandhi: