IV.
O, Little Boy Land! How afar into wrong
From the vales of your virtues I roam!
How far, since the croon of her lullaby song
I have wandered from mother and home!
But here is a heart that can never forget
Where the joys of our kingdom's yet roll,
And I see through the mists of the eyes that are wet
All the Little Boy Land of the Soul.
Caught on the Fly.
Faith and hope count a hundred, while idleness and discouragement are getting ready to figure.
There are many different motives concealed in the various compartments of man's being, but Vanity holds the key that unlocks them all.
The Kingbolt Philosopher.
"The feller thet is so wibbly-wobbly thet he can't trust his own idees," said Uncle Ezra Mudge as he stopped in the midst of his wood-chopping and leaned up against a log to rest, "is the kind of a feller who never amounts ter shucks in a cow pen. It takes a man who hez kep' hisself in sich a condition thet he knows jist whut he kin depend on when the firin' begins, who allus wins in the bayonet charge. En it don't pay to fool aroun' huntin' up other people's idees before you strike hard licks. Ef you do, the chances air your wood'll be scarce when the cold days blow aroun'!" And the old man spat on his hardened palms and went on with his labor.
In the Best Society.
"It sho'ly costs like ebryti'ng to move in de bes' socieety at Saint Looey!" said a newly arrived Guthrie coon to an old resident. "It jes' erbout takes all de money yuh kin make to keep up wid de pace ob de high flyahs in dat ole town. So I jes' come down heah whar a pooah coon kin hab a good time en save some ob de coin on foh dollahs a week, en git in de bes' culled socieety foh an ole banjo in de week days en two bits in de collection hat on de Sunday mohnin's!"
Be Strong to Dare.
Not he whose craven soul rejects the fight
And flees abjectly from the booming strife
Achieves the summits of his greatest might
Upon the blood-red battle-fields of life.
Be strong to dare! And if the conflict's lost,
Men boast the fight when misers count the cost!
When Mr. Money Comes to Town.
When Mister Money comes to town,
The waiting thousands throng
The crowded highways up and down
To see him pass along;
They cheer him as he passes by,
They clap with loud acclaim,
And shout applauses to the sky
At mention of his name.
They push and jostle with delight
No matter what the day;
They follow him through all the night
To hear what he may say;
They leave old friends divinely sweet
To chase this new one down,
And fall devoutly at his feet
When Money comes to town.
Forgotten all the scenes of yore,—
The joys of other years;
The perfect bliss that went before
And gladdened toils and tears;
Behold! The old things pass away,
And new ones come to crown
The dazzling glories of the day
When Money comes to town.
O, Mister Money! What's your rush!
Why do you hurry so!
Entangled up in all the crush,
I can't get next, you know!
Just come and camp with me and mine!
You'll never see us frown;
To have you with us will be fine
Whene'er you come to town!
Caught on the Fly.
When a man barters his honor for money, he never gets a chance to rue back.
Running this big world must be quite a job, but every man who talks politics thinks himself capable of bossing the whole works.
The next crop that needs looking up in the quotations is the length of the pole required for the persimmons about election day.
Feelin' Fine.
Roas'in' eahs dar on de stalk,—
Millons 'tween de rows;
Eb'ry t'ing a-makin' talk
Gin de crop ob woes;
Hebben come en settles down
On de millon vine;
Dis heah dahkey's shuah in town
Feelin' mos'ly fine!
The Little Feet.
Little feet that weary so
Down the dusty roads,
Pebbled are the paths you go
With your heavy loads,—
When the restless hours are o'er
And you cease to weep,
Little limbs shall ache no more
In the arms of sleep.
Little feet that weary so
On their journey long,
You shall lose the hurts you know
In the smiles of song!
All the lullabies of light,
All the smiles of play,
Romp across the darks of night
Into brighest day.
Little feet that weary so!
Come and let me take
All the heart-aches of your woe
For your baby's sake!
Cuddle on my lap, and flee
From the world's distress;
Let us run away and be
Where the fairies bless!
Caught on the Fly.
The fellow that "soldiers" too much in the hay-field generally soldiers too little in the battle-field of life.
The smile is a lightning-express train that carries you fast and far, while the frown is only a wheel-barrow that you have to push along.
In the battle of life, nothing is gained by deserting your guns to the enemy. Stand by them till the ammunition is gone, whether they are popguns or flint-locks.
If you ever feel inclined to blame a man for making mistakes, just look in the glass and behold the manner of man he is.
The Sunday School is undoubtedly a good place for a boy, but as a corrective measure it cannot be compared to an apple tree limb and a handy wood-shed.
The folks who sit on the back-steps and worry about the future never catch any smiles from the present as she passes the front gate.