Oh, why don't the preachers all preach to the point? I have sat here till every bone's out of joint, I've a crick in my neck and a pain in my back. I declare, Mary Riley has got a new sack, I never could see what folks fancied in her. Well, the sermon's progressing, I must listen and learn, The sermon is finished, the Bible is closed, The "collection" has wakened the deacons that dosed; And now we will have a tune from the choir; I think that their singing lacks feeling and fire; I wonder if Murray will be at the door Or if he will join that pert Minnie Moore? She's so proud of her eyes, with their sleepy old lids, "Old Hundred " is finished and I'll get my muff, I'll pretend not to see her and turn up my nose, NOTHING IS LOST. Nothing is lost: the drop of dew Which trembles on the leaf or flower In summer's thunder-shower; That fronts the sun at fall of day; Nothing is lost; the tiniest seed By wild birds borne or breezes blown, The language of some household song, So with our words: or harsh or kind, They have their influence on the mind, Pass on-but perish not. So with our deeds: for good or ill, They have their power scarce understood; Then let us use our better will, To make them rife with good! SAXON GRIT.-ROBERT COLLYER. At the New England dinner, given in New York on the 22nd of December, 1879, the toast, "The Saxon Grit-which, in New England as in Old England, has made a race of men to be honored, feared and respected. It is as positive as the earth is firm," was responded to by the Rev. Robert Collyer, in the following poem : Worn with the battle, by Stamford town, Fighting the Normans by Hastings Bay, Harold the Saxon's sun went down, While the acorns were falling one Autumn day. I will rule you now with the iron hand;" He took the land, and he took the men, And burnt the homesteads from Trent to Tyne, But he had not measured the Saxon grit. To his merry green wood went bold Robin Hood, With his strong-hearted yeomanry ripe for the fray. Driving the arrow into the marrow Of all the proud Normans who came in his way, Scorning the fetter, fearless and free, Winning by valor, or foiling by wit, Dear to our Saxon folk ever is he, This merry old rogue, with the Saxon grit. And Kett, the tanner, whipt out his knife; And Watt, the smith, his hammer brought down For Ruth, the maid he loved better than life, And by breaking a head, made a hole in the crown. From the Saxon heart rose a mighty roar, "Our life shall not be by the king's permit; From the acorns falling that Autumn day, * * Then rising afar in the western sea, A new world stood in the morn of the day, Ready to welcome the brave and free, Who could wrench out the heart and march away From the narrow, contracted, dear old land Where the poor are held by a cruel bit, To ampler spaces for heart and hand And here was a chance for the Saxon grit. Steadily steering, eagerly peering, Pilgrims and strangers, fronting all dangers, Cool-headed Saxons, with hearts all aflame. They whittled and waded through forest and føn, Pouring out life for the nurture of men ; In faith that by manhood the world wins all. Inventing baked beans and no end of machines; Great with the rifle and great with the ax, Sending their notions over the oceans, To fill empty stomachs and straighten bent backs. Swift to take chances that end in the dollar, Yet open of hand when the dollar is made, Maintaining the meetin', exalting the scholar, But a little too anxious about a good trade. This is young Jonathan, son of old John, Positive, peaceable, firm in the right, Saxon men all of us, may we be one, Steady for freedom, and strong in her might. Then, slow and sure, as the oaks have grown To a nobler stature will grow alway; Slow to contention, and slower to quit, DOT LEEDLE LOWEEZA.-CHARLES F. ADAMS. How dear to dis heart vas mine grandshild, Loweeza! I nefer vas tired to hug und to shqueeze her For vhen I come homevards she rushes bell-mell, Und poots oup dot shveet leedle mout' for to kiss meHer "darling oldt gampa," dot she lofe so vell. Katrina, mine frau, she could not do mitoudt her, She vas sooch a gomfort to her day py day; Like sunshine she drife all dheir droubles avay; How shveet, vhen der toils off der veek vas all ofer, Und dalk off der bast, by de fireside togedder, Ve gannot shtay long mit our shildren to dwell; UNCLE TOM AND THE HORNETS. There is an old woman down town who delights to find a case that all the doctors have failed to cure and then go to work with herbs and roots and strange things and try to effect at least an improvement. A few days ago she got hold of a girl with a stiff neck, and she offered an old negro named Uncle Tom Kelly fifty cents to go to the woods and bring her a hornet's nest. This was to be steeped in vinegar and applied to the neck. The old man spent several days along the Holden road, and yesterday morning he secured his prize and brought it home in a basket. When he reached the Central Market he had a few little purchases to make and after getting some few articles at a grocery he plac ed his basket on a barrel near the stove and went out to look for a beef bone. |