[Ill.u.s.tration: "And with--ahem--era--I said before."]

Oh, the story-book boy! when the Judge's dear child Is dragged through the streets by a runaway wild, Of course he's on hand, and a "ten-strike" he makes, For he stops the mad steed in a couple of "shakes"; And he tells the glad Judge, who has wept on his hat, "I did but my duty!" or something like that; And the very best place in the Judge's employ Is picked out at once for the story-book boy.

Oh, the story-book boy! all his troubles are o'er, For he gets to be Judge in a year or two more; And the wicked old landlord in poverty dies, And the Squire's son drinks, and in gutters he lies; But the girl whom he saved is our hero's fair bride, And his old mother comes to their home to abide; In silks and sealskins, she cries, in her joy: "Thank Heaven, I'm Ma of a story-book boy!"

THE SCHOOL-COMMITTEE MAN

Sometimes when we're in school, and it's the afternoon and late, And kinder warm and sleepy, don't yer know; And p'r'aps a feller's studyin' or writin' on his slate, Or, maybe chewin' paper-b.a.l.l.s to throw, And teacher's sort er lazy, too--why, then there'll come a knock And everybody'll brace up quick's they can; We boys and girls'll set up straight, and teacher'll smooth her frock, Because it's him--the school-committee man.

He'll walk in kinder stately-like and say, "How do, Miss Brown?"

And teacher, she'll talk sweet as choclate cake; And he'll put on his specs and cough and pull his eyebrows down And look at us so hard 't would make yer shake.

We'll read and spell, so's he can hear, and speak a piece or two, While he sets there so dreadful grand and cool; Then teacher'll rap her desk and say, "Attention!" soon's we're through, And ask him, won't he please address the school.

He'll git up kinder calm and slow, and blow his nose real loud, And put his hands behind beneath his coat, Then kinder balance on his toes and look 'round sort er proud And give a big "Ahem!" ter clear his throat; And then he'll say: "Dear scholars, I am glad ter see yer here, A-drinkin'--er--the crystal fount of lore; Here with your books, and--er--and--er--your teacher kind and dear, And with--ahem--er--as I said before."

We have ter listen awful hard ter every word of his And watch him jest like kittens do a rat, And laugh at every joke he makes, don't care how old it is, 'Cause he can _boss the teacher_,--think of that!

I useter say, when I growed up I 'd be a circus chap And drive two lions. .h.i.tched up like a span; But, honest, more I think of it, I b'lieve the bestest snap Is jest ter be a school-committee man.

WASTED ENERGY

South Pokus is religious,--that's the honest, livin' truth; South Pokus folks are pious,--man and woman, maid and youth; And they listen every Sunday, though it rains or snows or shines, In their seven shabby churches, ter their seven poor divines, Who dispense the balm and comfort that the thirstin' sperit needs, By a-fittin' of the gospel ter their seven different creeds, Each one sure his road ter Heaven is the only sartin way,-- Fer South Pokus is religious, as I started off ter say.

Now the Pokus population is nine hundred, more or less, Which, in one big congregation, would be quite a church, I guess, And do lots of good, I reckon; but yer see it couldn't be,-- Long's one's tweedledum was diff'rent from the other's tweedledee.

So the Baptists they are Baptists, though the church is swamped in debt, And the Orthodox is rigid, though expenses can't be met, And the twenty Presbyterians 'll be Calvinists or bust,-- Fer South Pokus is religious, as I said along at fust.

And the Methodist is buried, when his time comes 'round ter die, In the little weedy graveyard where no other sect can lie, And at Second Advent socials, every other Wednesday night, No one's ever really welcome but a Second Advent.i.te; While the Unitarian brother, as he walks the village streets, Seldom bows unless another Unitarian he meets; And there's only Univers'lists in a Univers'list's store,-- Fer South Pokus is religious, as I think I said before.

I thought I'd read that Jesus come ter do the whole world good,-- Come ter bind the Jew and Gentile in a lovin' brotherhood; But it seems that I'm mistaken, and I haven't read it right, And the text of "_Love_ your neighbor" must be somewhere written "Fight"; But I want ter tell yer, church folks, and ter put it to yer strong, While _you're fighting_ Old Nick's fellers _pull tergether_ right along: So yer'd better stop your squabblin', be united if yer can, Fer the Pokus way of doin' ain't no use ter G.o.d or man.

WHEN THE MINISTER COMES TO TEA

Oh! they've swept the parlor carpet, and they've dusted every chair, And they've got the tidies hangin' jest exactly on the square; And the what-not's fixed up lovely, and the mats have all been beat, And the pantry's brimmin' over with the bully things ter eat; Sis has got her Sunday dress on, and she's frizzin' up her bangs; Ma's got on her best alpacky, and she's askin' how it hangs; Pa has shaved as slick as can be, and I'm rigged way up in G,-- And it's all because we're goin' ter have the minister ter tea.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Oh! the table's fixed up gaudy with the gilt-edged chiny set, And we'll use the silver tea-pot and the comp'ny spoons, you bet; And we're goin' ter have some fruit-cake and some thimbleberry jam, And "riz biscuits," and some doughnuts, and some chicken, and some ham.

Ma, she'll 'polergize like fury and say everything is bad, And "Sich awful luck with cookin'," she is sure she never had; But, er course, she's only bluffin', for it's as prime as it can be, And she's only talkin' that way 'cause the minister's ter tea.

Everybody'll be a-smilin' and as good as ever was, Pa won't growl about the vittles, like he generally does, And he'll ask me would I like another piece er pie; but, sho!

That, er course, is only manners, and I'm s'posed ter answer "No."

Sis'll talk about the church-work and about the Sunday-school, Ma'll tell how she liked that sermon that was on the Golden Rule, And if I upset my tumbler they won't say a word ter me:-- Yes, a boy can eat in comfort with the minister ter tea!

Say! a minister, you'd reckon, never 'd say what wasn't true; But that isn't so with ours, and I jest can prove it, too; 'Cause when Sis plays on the organ so it makes yer want ter die, Why, he sets and says it's lovely; and that, seems ter me, 's a lie: But I like him all the samey, and I only wish he'd stay At our house fer good and always, and eat with us every day; Only think of havin' goodies _every_ evenin'! Jimmi_nee_!

And I'd _never_ git a scoldin' with the minister ter tea!

"YAP"

I've got a little yaller dog, a wuthless kind of chap, Who jest ain't good fer nothin' but ter eat and sleep and "yap."

Fer all 'round general wuthlessness I never see his beat, And yet he makes more fuss and noise than all the farm complete.

There ain't a mite of sense inside that yaller hide of his; But, as _he_ ain't no good, he likes ter pester them that is.

The critters all despise him, but there ain't a one but feels A little mite oneasy when he's "yappin'" round their heels.

Yer see, he loves ter sneak around behind 'em, out of sight, And give a sudden snap and snarl as if he meant ter bite; Of course they know he wouldn't hurt, and only means to scare, But still, it worries 'em ter know the little scamp is there; And if they do git nervous-like and try to hit him back He swells up so with pride it seems as if his skin would crack; And then he's wuss than ever, so they find it doesn't pay, But let him keep on "yappin'" till he's tired and goes away.

There's lots of people built like him--yer see 'em everywhere-- Who, 'cause they ain't no use themselves, can't somehow seem ter bear Ter see another feller rise, but in their petty spite And natural meanness, snarl and snap and show they'd like ter bite.

They don't come out in front like men, and squarely speak their mind, But like that wuthless yaller pup, they're hangin' 'round behind.

They're little and contemptible, but if yer make a slip It must be bothersome ter know they'll take that chance ter nip.

But there! perhaps it isn't right ter mind 'em, after all; Perhaps we ought ter thank the Lord _our_ souls ain't quite so small; And they, with all their sneakin' ways, must be, I rather guess, The thorns that p.r.i.c.k your fingers 'round the roses of success: Fer, when yer come ter think of it, they never bark until A feller's really started and a good ways up the hill; So, 'f I was climbin' up ter fame I wouldn't care a rap, But I'd think I _was_ somebody when the curs begun ter "yap."

THE MINISTER'S WIFE

She's little and modest and purty, As red as a rose and as sweet; _Her_ children don't ever look dirty, Her kitchen ain't no way but neat.

She's the kind of a woman ter cherish, A help ter a feller through life, Yet every old hen in the parish Is down on the minister's wife.

'Twas Mrs. 'Lige Hawkins begun it; She always has had the idee That the church was built so's she could run it, 'Cause Hawkins is deacon, yer see; She thought that the whole congregation Kept step ter the tune of her fife, But she found 't was a wrong calkerlation Applied ter the minister's wife.

Then Mrs. Jedge Jenks got excited-- She thinks she's the whole upper crust;-- When she found the Smiths was invited Ter meet'n', she quit in disgust.

"_You_ can have all the paupers yer choose to,"

Says she, jest as sharp as a knife; "But if _they_ go ter church _I_ refuse to!"

"Good-by!" says the minister's wife.

And then Mrs. Jackson got stuffy At her not comin' sooner ter call, And old Miss Macgregor is huffy 'Cause she went up ter Jackson's at all.

Each one of the crowd hates the other, The church has been full of their strife; But now they're all hatin' another, And that one's the minister's wife.

But still, all their cackle unheedin', She goes, in her ladylike way, A-givin' the poor what they're needing And helpin' the church every day: Our numbers each Sunday is swelling And real, true religion is rife, And sometimes I feel like a-yellin', "Three cheers fer the minister's wife!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'Well, now, I vum! I know, by gum! I'm right because I _be_!'"]

THE VILLAGE ORACLE

"_I am Sir Oracle, and when I ope my lips let no dog bark!_"