He took up the fresh air movement, but the people down at Coles Shook their head—a preacher's work, they said, was saving precious souls, Not worrying lest the waifs and strays that throng the city street Should pine for want of country air, and country food to eat. Lawyer Angus, at the meeting, spoke against new-fangled things; "Seems to me our preacher's bow, friends, has a muckle lot of strings." Merchant Jones said trade was failing, rent was high and clerks to pay; Not a dollar could he give them, he was very grieved to say. Old Squire Hays was buying timber, needed every cent and more; Doctor Blake sat coldly smiling—then the farmer took the floor.
"Wish," he said, "our hearts were bigger, an' our speeches not so long; I would move right here the preacher tunes us up a little song." Sing? I wish you could have heard him—simple songs of long ago, Old familiar things that held us—warm that golden voice and low— Songs of summer in the woodlands, cowslips yellow in the vale; Songs of summer in the city, and the children wan and pale, Till we saw the blist'ring pavement pressed by tired little feet, Heard the baby voices crying for the meadows wide and sweet.
"Now we'll take up the collection," said the wily farmer Bowles, And they showered in their money, did the people down at Coles. "Here's a cheque," said lawyer Angus, "'tis the best that I can do; Man, you'd have us in the poorhouse if you sang your sermons through!"
The very careless fellow still goes his cheery way Unmindful of what people think or of what people say. Some still are finding fault with him—he doesn't mind it much— Laughs when they make remarks about his clothes and shoes and such, Declare his sermons have no point, and quarrel with his text, As people will, but oh, it makes his pretty wife so vext! "I think," she says, "as much of him as any woman can, But 'tis most aggravating to have such a careless man."
There are those who think him perfect, shout his praises with a will. He has labored for the Master, he is laboring for Him still; And the grumbling does not move him, nor the praises sung abroad— Things like these seem only trifles to the man who works for God. Farmer Bowles summed up the total in his own original way When he spoke at the Convention that was held the other day. "Never knew a better worker, never knew a kinder man; Lots of preachers are more stylish, keep themselves so spic-and-span You could spot 'em out for preachers if you met 'em walkin' round Over on the Fejee Islands, silk hat, long coat, I'll be bound. Our man's different, but, I tell you, when it comes to doing good There's not one can beat him at it, an' I want this understood. Ask the sad folks and the sinful, ask the fallen ones he's raised, Ask the sick folks and the poor folks, if you want to hear him praised. Orator? Well, maybe not, friends, but in caring for men's souls There stand few men half so faithful as the preacher down at Coles."
CHORE TIME.
When I'm at gran'dad's on the farm, I hear along 'bout six o'clock, Just when I'm feelin' snug an' warm, "Ho, Bobby, come and feed your stock."
I jump an' get into my clothes; It's dark as pitch, an' shivers run All up my back. Now, I suppose Not many boys would think this fun.