No boarding house, tavern or inn was in sight; so into a cavern went
Bruce, in sore plight. By enemies hunted, a price on his head, and all
his schemes shunted, he wished he was dead. "In vain my endeavor,
repulsed my demands; I'll try again never--I throw up my hands!" And
so he lay sighing and cussing his fate, and wished he was lying stone
dead in a crate. A spider was spinning its web by the wall; now
losing, now winning, now taking a fall; though often it tumbled, it
breathed not a sob, nor crawfished nor grumbled, but stuck to its job.
Then Bruce opened wider his eyes and exclaimed: "That dodgasted spider
has made me ashamed! I'm but a four-flusher to sit here and whine!
This morning must usher in triumphs of mine!"

He canned all his wailing and cut out the frown, and went forth
a-smiling, and won a large crown!

And legions of fellows with tears in their eyes, who wear out their
bellows with groaning and sighs, who think they are goners, ordained to
the dump, would harvest some honors if they would just hump! The
spiders are teaching, the same as of old; the spiders are preaching a
gospel of gold: "Though baffled and broken, O children of men, let
grief be unspoken--go at it again!"