ANGELS.
I wonder if you give your mind
At all to angels. "Which?" you say?
Why, angels of the hymn-book kind,
Not imitation ones in clay.
I often do. They fascinate
My fancy to a strange degree;
And meditating much of late
There came two serious points to me.
You notice in the Holy Writ
Angels are never feminine;
But, wheresoever they may flit,
He came, he spake, he gave the sign.
The men who wrote of them were sage,
And knew their subject out and out;
But we live in a wicked age,
That twists the angels' sex about.
And painters paint them girls. And then
The question sets one's brains afire—
Why choristers on earth are men,
If women form the heavenly choir?
And if they do paint here or there
A man among the cherubim,
I claim to know why not a hair
May grow upon the face of him?
I know the Roman Church decreed
"A priest shall wear a shaven face."
But what of angels? There indeed
Razor and strop seem out of place.
Then why this hairless cheek and chin?
I ask, and Echo answers Why?
Have angel-cheeks no roots within?
—Here comes my keeper. So, good-bye!
Reckless.—"Mr. Allen, Senator of Albraska, a prominent silverite, spoke for fifteen hours." "Speech is silver. Silence golden." If all silverites go on at this length, there'll be no silence, ergo, no gold. Q. E. D.
