Onward his motto, aye, he strives
To grasp some other feat,
And in the dullest times contrives
Somehow to make ends meet.
The world may smite him without cause,
He never shuns its whacks,
And seldom grumbles at the laws
That regulate his tax.
We know but little of the good
His many acts reveal—
Were he ’midst madmen, why, he would
Their understandings heal.
And a much higher motive yet
His generous heart controls,
You would not see that saint forget
Their perishable souls.
A COMMERCIAL CRISIS.
THE financial flare-up is going round. It has penetrated the modest shanty of Jones, in our street.
“It was late when you came home last night, my dear,” said Mrs. J. at breakfast yesterday morning. When that lady addresses her husband with the affix of “my dear,” Jones recognizes a disturbed condition of the domestic atmosphere. He has had solemn experiences of the way Mrs. Jones works up a tea-table tornado. Therefore, Jones said nothing. He couldn’t say less; he was afraid to say more.
“I repeat, my dear, it was late when you returned home last night.”
Jones admitted there was nothing particularly premature about the hour in question.
“Perhaps, my dear, you wouldn’t find your feelings much hurt if I wished to know where you spent your evening.”