What poor short-sighted worms we be;
For we can't calculate,
With any sort of sartintee,
What is to be our fate.
These words Prissilla's heart did reach,
And caused her tears to flow,
When first she heard the Elder preach,
About six months ago.
How true it is what he did state,
And thus affected her,
That nobody can't calculate
What is a-gwine to occur.
When we retire, can't calculate
But what afore the morn
Our housen will conflaggerate,
And we be left forlorn.
Can't calculate when we come in
From any neighborin' place,
Whether we'll ever go out agin
To look on natur's face.
Can't calculate upon the weather,
It always changes so;
Hain't got no means of telling whether
It's gwine to rain or snow.
Can't calculate with no precision
On naught beneath the sky;
And so I've come to the decision
That't ain't worth while to try.
Frances M. Whitcher.
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