ON MOTHER AND MOTHERLAND

A true patriot is blind, as it were, to the meager resources of his motherland. He feels his birth gives it all the worth, that it possesses. "For what worth my life could be, if I could not mend the mandible" he declares. He takes good out of bad and applies his ingenuity to turn the worst into the best. He develops an attitude of adjustment with the surrounding unfavorable conditions, if any, and in due course modifies them to the admiration of the world. Therein lies his rationality and that fetches him immortality.

Here is a little, charming poem that extols the sentiment of attachment to land in an exalted manner. Attachment to land is greater than any other virtue. Every spot on earth has its beauty and merits. Each country is adorable and no country is detestable; be it the frigid zone. The tenant of the poles-the Eskimo applauds in glorious terms the treasures of his motherland and the stormy weather that engulfs him. He admires the long chilly nights and forgets himself in them. He puts them to the best use by indulging in revelry and boisterous merry-making. The constant fall of white, chilly, dull snow does not deter his enthusiasm to love the land of his birth; nor do the life-taking and horrifying hurricanes dampen his patriotic fervour. He knows pretty well, all about the little comforts that he could command, or his country could afford. Sure, he reaps neither the benefits of education, nor the fruits of culture. And dreams of neither the economic prosperity, nor political stability. All that he could see is a white sheet of snow covering every spot that puts at nougat his entire activity and vitality. He lives in snow, sleeps in snow, dies in snow, and finally lies buried in snow. He lives by snow, as a matter of fact. He is verily backward economically, politically, spiritually, educationally and culturally too, but not in loyalty to his motherland.

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