He rode it by night and he rode it by day,
If he went two rods or ten miles away;
And Deacon Smith was heard to remark
That he met that "pesky thing in the dark
And it went right by with a glint and a gleam
And a wild 'hoot-toot' that made him scream;
In spite of the fact that he knew right well
That evil spirits were all in—well—
He wouldn't meet that thing again
For a corn-crib full of good, ripe grain."
One Sunday morning, the sun was bright,
The bird's throats bursting with glad delight,
The parson-mounted his plump old bay
And jogged to the church, two miles away,
While Tom wheeled round, ten miles or more
And hid his wheel by the chancel door,
And he thought, as he sat in the parson's pew,
"I wonder what makes dad look so blue,"
Till it came like a flash to his active mind,
He left his sermon and specs behind.
Now the parson was old and his eyes were dim
And he couldn't have read a line or a hymn,
Without his specs for a mint of gold,
And his head turned hot while his toes turned cold,
And right in the midst of his mental shock,
The parson deceived his trusting flock,
And gave them eternal life and a crown
From the book he was holding upside down.
Tom, the rascal, five minutes before,
Like an arrow had shot from the chancel door.
The horses he frightened I never can tell,
Nor how the old church folk were shocked, as well,
And they said they feared that the parson's lad
"Was a-gettin' wild" and would go to the bad,
For 'twas wicked enough to set folks in a craze
Without "ridin' sech races on Sabbath days,"
And they thought the length of the parson's prayer
Had something to do with his fatherly care.
While the truth of it was, which he afterwards dropped,
He didn't know what he could do when he stopped.
Of course you know how the story will end,
The prayer was finished and duly "Amen'd,"
When Tom, all dust, to the pulpit flew
And laid down the specs and the sermon too.
Then the parson preached in a timid way,
Of sinful pleasure on Sabbath-day,
And he added a postscript, not in the text.
Saying that, when they were sore perplexed,
Each must decide as he chanced to feel.
And Tom chuckled: "Sundays, I'll ride my wheel."
THE LAND OF OUR BIRTH.
BY LILLIE E. BARR.
O! where is the land that each mortal loves best,
The land that is dearest and fairest on earth?
It is North, it is South, it is East, it is West;
For this beautiful land is the land of our birth.