The Reason
"Why shouldest Thou be as a wayfaring man, that
turneth aside to tarry for a night?"—Jer. xiv. 8.
Nay, do not get the venison pasty
out;
I shall not greatly put myself about
Hungry, he may be; yes, and we shall
spare
Some bread and cheese, 'tis truly whole-
some fare.
We have to-morrow's dinner still to find;
It's well for you I have a frugal mind.
Not the best bed! No, no. Whatever
next?
Why with such questionings should I be
vext?
The man is naught to us; why should
we care?
The little attic room will do; 'tis bare,
But he'll be gone before to-morrow's light;
He has but come to tarry for a night.
I shall not speak with him. Oh, no, not I,
Lest I should pity overmuch, or buy
Some paltry ware of his. Nay, I'll to
bed,
And he can sup alone, well warmed and
fed;
'Tis much to take him in a night like this.
Why should I fret me with concerns of
his?
Grey morning came, and at the break of
day
The Man rose up and went upon his way
Two Women
"I beseech Euodias, and beseech Syntyche, that they
be of the same mind in the Lord"—Phil. iv. 2,
EUODIAS.
But if Paul heard her tattlings, I am
sure
He never would expect me to endure.
There is a something in her very face
Antagonistic to the work of grace.
And even when I would speak graciously
Somehow, Syntyche's manner ruffles me.
SYNTYCHE.
No, not for worlds! Euodias has no
mind;
So slow she is, so spiritually blind.
Her tongue is quite unbridled, yet she
says
She grieves to see my aggravating ways
Ah, no one but myself knows perfectly
How odious Euodias can be!
EUODIAS.
Yet, "in the Lord." Ah, that's another
thing!
SYNTYCHE.
Yet, "in the Lord." That alters it in-
deed.
EUODIAS.
For His sake I'll endure her whispering
SYNTYCHE.
For His sake I'll consent to let her lead.
EUODIAS.
Lord, teach me to forbear; yes, day by
day.
SYNTYCHE.
Lord, keep me gentle now, and all the
way.
The Prize Fight
"I am a boxer, who does not inflict blows on the air,
but I hit hard and straight at my own body."—1 Cor.
ix. 26 (WEYMOUTH'S Translation).
'T'was breakfast time, and outside in
the street
The factory men went by with hurrying
feet.
And on the bridge, in dim December light,
The newsboys shouted of the great prize
fight.
Then, as I dished the bacon, and served
out
The porridge, all our youngsters gave
a shout.
The letter-box had clicked, and through
the din
The Picture News was suddenly pushed in.
John showed the lads the pictures, and
explained
Just how the fight took place, and what
was gained
By that slim winner. Then, he looked at me
As I sat, busy, pouring out the tea:
"Your mother is a boxer, rightly styled.
She hits the air sometimes, though," and
John smiled.
"Yet she fights on." Young Jack, with
widened eyes
Said: "Dad, how soon will mother get a
prize?"
We laughed. And yet it set me thinking,
how
I beat the air, because a neighbour's cow
Munched at our early cabbages, and ate
The lettuce up, and tramped my mignon-
ette!
And many a time I kicked against the
pricks
Because the little dog at number six
Disturbed my rest. And then, how cross
I got
When Jane seemed discontented with her
lot.
Until poor John in desperation said
He wearied of the theme—and went to
bed!
And how I vexed myself that day, when he
Brought people unexpectedly for tea,
Because the table-cloth was old and
stained,
And not a single piece of cake remained.
And how my poor head ached! Because,
well there!
It uses lots of strength to beat the air!
"I am a boxer!" Here and now I pray
For grace to hit the self-life every day.
And when the old annoyance comes once
more
And the old temper rises sharp and sore,
I shall hit hard and straight, O Tender-
Wise,
And read approval in Thy loving eyes.