Like a porter all day, with fatigue fit to crack, Or, like pilgrim of old, with his load at his back, I can't get a wife, though each hour hard I try, "I'm afraid to have you!" when I ask 'em for why? 66 Because you have got such a nose." Oh, dear! lack-a-daisy me! Their cause of refusal I cannot suppose, They all like the man, but they say,-"Blow his nose!" Like a large joint of meat, before a small fire, Or, to a brass knocker, nought there can be nigher, A wag, you must know, just by way of a wipe, If I ask any one my way to disclose, If I lose it, they answer, “Why, follow your nose." THE HONEST DEACON. AN OLD STORY IN RHYME. An honest man was Deacon Ray; On almost every Sunday, too, At church, in front, upon the side, One Sunday, the sermon done, He warned them that they must not flinch Each thought his neighbor'd get dressed down; The church at early hour was full; The deacon, some behind, Came in quite late; for he had been And up the long and broad aisle And, by the time he'd reached his seat, The parson of transgressors spoke, A pause; and then the deacon rose, Of course the consternation Was great on every side; For who'd have thought the deacon The preacher, not the least disturbed, And warned him to forsake his ways; "Twas soon another question came, Some looked at this one, some at that, Who 'twas the parson meant; His eyes were on the squire. The deacon, noting how things stood, 66 THE NEW BIRTH.-HERMAN MERIVALE. God spake in a voice of thunder, Of old from Sinai's hill; And the mystic words of wonder He sees in the vault above him, Gemmed round by the souls that love Him, The great Creator's throne. He sees in the day of danger The column of cloud that led And knows, though his footsteps wander That his home is building yonder, By the one unerring hand. He sees-in the night of peril- On the page of the mighty ocean By the law of His royal will; In the language of the waves. He marks in the plants around him While the wordless worlds that bound him, Whisper their undertone. From the hawk and the hound yet clearer He hears the secret fall, Which nearer to him and nearer Brings the great God of all. 163 In the leaves that blow and perish The grain that again revives, I know how the glass must darken And the light beyond the river Strong-set in a strong affection, Shall burst on the doubts of time; THE POTATO. -THOMAS MOORE. I'm a careless potato, and care not a pin If they planted me drill-wise, or dibbled me in, The bean and the pea may more loftily tower, But I care not a button for them, Defiance I nod with my beautiful flower When the earth is hoed up to my stem. WHAT A LITTLE BOY THINKS ABOUT THINGS. JOHN PAUL. I am a little boy about so many years old; I don't know whether I'm a good little boy, but I'm afraid not, for I sometimes do wicked things, and once I cut sister's kitten's tail off with the chopping knife, and told her a big dog came along and bit it off and swallowed it down before kitty could say Jack Robinson, and sister said she was sorry, and it must have been a very naughty dog, but mother did not believe me and said she was afraid I had told a lie, and I'm afraid 1 had. So then she asked me if I knew where liars went to and I said yes, they went to New York and wrote for the newspapers; she said no-but to a lake of fire and brimstone, and she asked me if I would like to go there, and I said no, for I didn't think there would be much skating or sliding on that lake, and the boys couldn't snowball either, on shore, and she said it was more than that, just as though that wasn't bad enough, for I don't think they can play base-ball nuther. Then she asked me if I wouldn't like to be a nangel and have a harp, and I said no, I'd rather be a stage driver and have a big drum, for I couldn't play on t'other thing. So 1 shouldn't like to be a nangel, for their wings must be in the way when they go swimming, and play tag, and leap frog, and besides it must be hard to fly when one ain't accustomed to it. But it would be jolly to be a stage driver and have a great long whip and touch up the leaders, and say "g'lang there, what are ye doin' on !" I should like that much better'n flyin'; and then mother said there was a dreadful stage of sin, and Bob hollered and said that he "guessed I was on it," and then she whipped us and sent us to bed without any supper, but I didn't care for any supper, for they hadn't nothin' but bread and butter and tea,-and Bob and I got up and he lifted me in at the pantry window, and we got a mince-pie and a whole hat-full of doughnuts, and they thought it was the cook that stole 'em, and sent her away the next day, and Bob said he was giad of it, for she didn't make good pies, and the doughnuts wasn't fried enough. |