SERMON TIME

"Blessed are the poor in spirit": there, I'll just remember that, And I'll say it over 'n over, till I've got it good and pat, For when I get home from meetin', Gran'ma'll ask me for the text, And if I say I've forgot it, she'll be goin' for me next, Say in', I don't pay attention, and what _am_ I comin' to; Tellin' 'bout when _she_ was little, same as old folks always do.

Say, I'll bet she didn't like it any better than the rest, Sittin' 'round all stiff and starchy, dressed up in your Sunday best.

"Blessed are the poor"--I tell yer, some day I'll be clearin' out, Leavin' all this dressin' nonsense, 'cause I'm goin' ter be a scout, Same as "Deadwood d.i.c.k," a-killin' all the Injuns on the plains: _He_ do'n't comb his hair, you bet yer; no, nor wash, unless it rains.

And bimeby I'll come home, bringin' loads of gold and di'mon' rings; My, won't all the boys be jealous when they see those kind of things!

'N' I'll have a reputation, folks'll call me "Lariat Ben,"

Gran'ma'll think I 'mount ter somethin', maybe, when she sees me then.

"Blessed are the"--There's a blackbird, outside, sittin' on a limb,-- Gosh! I wish it wasn't Sunday, p'raps I wouldn't go for him.

Sis says stonin' birds is wicked, but she's got one on her hat,-- S'pose that makes it right and proper, if yer kill 'em just for that.

There's that dudey city feller, sittin' in the Deacon's pew.

Needn't feel so big now, Smarty, just because your clothes are new; Me and Sam has rigged a hat line; when it's dark to-morrer night We'll just catch your shiny beaver and we'll send it out of sight.

"Blessed are"--There's Mr. Wiggin sound asleep. I wish he'd snore.

Cracky! Now he's been and done it, dropped his hymn-book on the floor.

See how cross his wife is lookin'. Say, I bet they'll have a row; Pa said that she wore the breeches, but she's got a dress on now.

There's Nell Baker with her uncle. Her 'n I don't speak at school, 'Cause she wouldn't help a feller when I clean forgot the rule.

Used to be my girl before that--Gee! what was that text about?

"Blessed--blessed--blessed" something. I'll ask Sis when we get out.

"TAKIN' BOARDERS"

_We'd_ never thought of takin' 'em,--'t was Mary Ann's idee,-- Sence she got back from boardin'-school she's called herself "Maree"

An' scattered city notions like a tom-cat sheds his fur.

She thought our old melodeon wa'n't good enough fer her, An' them pianners cost so that she said the only way Was ter take in summer boarders till we 'd made enough to pay; So she wrote adver_tis_ements out to fetch 'em inter camp, An' now there's boarders thicker here than June bugs round a lamp.

Our best front parlor'll jest be sp'iled; they h'ist up every shade An' open all the blinds, by gum! an' let the carpet fade.

They're in there week days jest the same as Sunday; I declare, I really think our haircloth set is showin' signs o' wear!

They set up ha'f the night an' sing,--no use ter try ter sleep, With them a-askin' folks ter "Dig a grave both wide an' deep,"

An' "Who will smoke my mashum pipe?" By gee! I tell yer what: If they want me to dig their graves, I'd jest as soon as not!

There ain't no comfort now at meals; I can't take off my coat, Nor use my knife to eat, nor tie my napkin 'round my throat, Nor drink out of my sa.s.ser. Gosh! I hardly draw my breath 'Thout Mary Ann a-tellin' me she's "mortified to death!"

Before they came our breakfast time was allus ha'f-past six; By thunderation! 't wouldn't do; you'd orter hear the kicks!

So jest to suit 'em 't was put off till sometime arter eight, An' when a chap gits up at four that's mighty long ter wait.

The idee was that Mary Ann would help her Ma; but, land!

She can't be round a minute but some boarder's right on hand Ter take her out ter walk or ride--_she_ likes it well enough, But when you 're gittin' grub for twelve, Ma finds it kinder tough.

We ain't a-sayin' nothin' now, we'll see this season through, But folks that bought one gold brick ain't in love with number two; An' if you're pa.s.sin' down our way next summer, cast your eye At our front fence. You'll see a sign, "NO BOARDERS NEED APPLY."

A COLLEGE TRAINING

Home from college came the stripling, calm and cool and debonair, With a weird array of raiment and a wondrous wealth of hair, With a lazy love of languor and a healthy hate of work And a cigarette devotion that would shame the turbaned Turk.

And he called his father "Guv'nor," with a cheek serene and rude, While that raging, wrathful rustic calld his son a "blasted dude."

And in dark and direful language muttered threats of coming harm To the "idle, shif'less critter" from his father's good right arm.

And the trouble reached a climax on the lawn behind the shed,-- "Now, I'm gon' ter lick yer, sonny," so the st.u.r.dy parent said, "And I'll knock the college nonsense from your noddle, mighty quick!"-- Then he lit upon that chappy like a wagon-load of brick.

But the youth serenely murmured, as he gripped his angry dad, "You're a clever rusher, Guv'nor, but you tackle very bad"; And he rushed him through the center and he tripped him for a fall, And he scored a goal and touchdown with his papa as the ball.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "That was jolly, Guv'nor. now we'll practice every day."]

Then a cigarette he lighted, as he slowly strolled away, Saying, "That was jolly, Guv'nor, now we'll practice every day"; While his father from the puddle, where he wallowed in disgrace, Smiled upon his offspring, proudly, from a bruised and battered face, And with difficulty rising, quick he hobbled to the house.

"Henry's all right, Ma!" he shouted to his anxious, waiting spouse, "He jest licked me good and solid, and I tell yer, Mary Ann, When a chap kin lick _your husband_ he's a mighty able man!"

A CRUSHED HERO

On a log behind the pigsty of a modest little farm, Sits a freckled youth and lanky, red of hair and long of arm; But his mien is proud and haughty and his brow is high and stern, And beneath their sandy lashes, fiery eyes with purpose burn.

Bow before him, gentle reader, he's the hero we salute, He is Hiram Adoniram Andrew Jackson Shute.

Search not Fame's immortal marbles, never there his name you'll find, For our hero, let us whisper, is a hero in his mind; And a youth may bathe in glory, wade in slaughter time on time, When a novel, wild and gory, may be purchased for a dime.

And through reams of lurid pages has he slain the Sioux and Ute, b.l.o.o.d.y Hiram Adoniram Andrew Jackson Shute.

Hark, a heavy step advancing,--list, a father's angry cry, "He hain't shucked a single nubbin; where's that good-fer-nothin' Hi?"

"Here, base catiff," comes the answer, "here am I who was your slave, But no more I'll do your shuckin', though I fill a b.l.o.o.d.y grave!

Freedom's fire my breast has kindled; there'll be bloodshed, tyrant!

brute!"

Quoth brave Hiram Adoniram Andrew Jackson Shute.

"Breast's a-blazin', is it, Sonny?" asks his father with a smile, "Kind er like a stove, I reckon, what they call 'gas-burner' style.

Good 'base-burner' 's what your needin'"--here he pins our hero fast, "Come, young man, we'll try the woodshed, keep the bloodshed till the last."

Then an atmosphere of horse-whip, interspersed with cow-hide boot, Wraps young Hiram Adoniram Andrew Jackson Shute.

Weep ye now, oh, gentle reader, for the fallen, great of heart, As ye wept o'er Saint Helena and the exiled Bonaparte; For a picture, sad as that one, to your pity I would show Of a spirit crushed and broken,--of a hero lying low; For where husks are heaped the highest, working swiftly, hushed and mute, Shucketh Hiram Adoniram Andrew Jackson Shute.

A THANKSGIVING DREAM

I'm pretty nearly certain that't was 'bout two weeks ago,-- It might be more, or, p'raps 't was less,--but, anyhow, I know 'T was on the night I ate the four big saucers of ice cream That I dreamed jest the horriblest, most awful, _worstest_ dream.

I dreamed that 'twas Thanksgiving and I saw our table laid With every kind of goody that, I guess, was ever made; With turkey, and with puddin', and with everything,--but, gee!

'T was dreadful, 'cause they was alive, and set and looked at me.

And then a great big gobbler, that was on a platter there, He stood up on his drumsticks, and he says, "You boy, take care!

For if, Thanksgivin' Day, you taste my dark meat or my white, I'll creep up to your bedroom in the middle of the night; I'll throw off all the blankets, and I'll pull away the sheet, I'll prance and dance upon you with my p.r.i.c.kly, tickly feet; I'll kick you, and I'll pick you, and I'll screech, 'Remember me!'

Beware, my boy! Take care, my boy!" that gobbler says, says he.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Talking Turkey]