“Brisk as a flea, and ignorant as dirt.”
All, that can be said about it, lies in a filbert shell, ita lex scripta est, ita rerum natura. You will not mend the matter, by scowling and growling, from morning to night. Can you not remember, that you yourself, when a boy, were saluted now and then, with the title of “proper plague”—“devil’s bird”—or “little Pickle?” I can. Some years ago, my very worthy friend, the Rev. John S. C. Abbott, did me the kindness to give me one of his excellent works, the Path of Peace. The preface contains a very short and clever incident, of whose applicability, you can judge for yourself.
“Mother,” said a little boy, “I do not wish to go to Heaven.”
“And why not, my son?”
“Why, grandfather will be there, will he not?”
“Yes, my son, I hope he will.”
“Well, as soon as he sees us, he will come, scolding along, and say, ‘Whew, whew, whew! what are these boys here for?’ I am sure I do not wish to go to Heaven, if grandfather is to be there.”
This is a short tale of a grandfather, but it is a very significant story, for its length; and calculated, I fear, for many meridians.
Well, here we are, in the very midst of bells and bonfires, screaming for joy, in honor of the new year, with our spandy new weepers on, for the old one.