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 G.o.d.

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."

Ch.o.r.e 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.

But when we get out to the barn The greedy pigs begin to squeal, An' I throw in the yellow corn, A bushel basket to the meal.

Then I begin to warm right up, I whistle "Yankee Doodle" through, An' wrastle with the collie pup-- And sometimes gran'dad whistles too.

The cow-shed door, it makes a din Each time we swing it open wide; I run an' flash the lantern in, There stand the shorthorns side by side.

Their breathin' makes a sort of cloud Above their heads--there's no frost here.

"My beauties," gran'dad says out loud, "You'll get your breakfasts, never fear."

When up I climb into the loft To fill their racks with clover hay, Their eyes, all sleepy like and soft, A heap of nice things seem to say.

The red ox shakes his curly head, An' turns on me a solemn face; I know he's awful glad his shed Is such a warm and smelly place.

An' last of all the stable big, With harness hanging on each door, I always want to dance a jig On that old musty, dusty floor.

It seems so good to be alive, An' tendin' to the st.u.r.dy grays, The sorrels, and old Prince, that's five-- An' Lightfoot with her coaxing ways.

My gran'dad tells me she is mine, An' I'm that proud! I braid her mane, An' smooth her sides until they shine, An' do my best to make her vain.

When we have measured oats for all, Have slapped the grays upon the flanks, An' tried to pat the sorrels tall, An' heard them whinny out their thanks,

We know it's breakfast time, and go Out past the yellow stacks of straw, Across the creek that used to flow, But won't flow now until a thaw.

Behind the trees the sky is pink, The snow drifts by in fat white flakes, My gran'dad says: "Well, Bob, I think There comes a smell of buckwheat cakes."

A BOY'S TRIALS.

When I was but a little lad One thing I could not bear, It was to stand at mother's knee And have her comb my hair.

They didn't keep boys' hair as short As it's kept now-a-days, And mine was always tangled up In twenty different ways.

I'd twist my mouth and grit my teeth, And say it wasn't fair-- It was a trial, and no mistake, When mother combed my hair.

She'd brush and brush each stubborn curl That grew upon my pate, And with her scissors nip and clip To make the edges straight.

Then smooth it down until it shone, While I would grin and bear, And feel a martyr through and through, When mother combed my hair.

She'd take my round chin in her hand And hold it there the while She made the parting carefully, Then tell me with a smile:

"Don't push your cap down on your curls And spoil my work and care; He is a pretty little lad When mother combs his hair."

I'd hurry out and rumple up That mop of hair so thick-- A vandal, I, for she had worked So hard to make it slick--

And wish I were a grown-up man So n.o.body would dare To put a washrag in my ears, Or comb my tangled hair.

Heigho! now that I'm bald and gray, Methinks I would be glad To have her smooth my brow and cheeks, And whisper, "Mother's lad!"

A longing for the care-free days Doth take me unaware; To stand, a boy, at mother's knee And have her comb my hair.

AN APRIL FOOL OF LONG AGO.

In powdered wig and buckled shoe, Knee-breeches, coat and waistcoat gay, The wealthy squire rode forth to woo Upon a first of April day.

He would forget his lofty birth, His spreading acres, and his pride, And Betty, fairest maid on earth, Should be his own--his grateful bride.

The maid was young, and he was old; The maid was good to look upon.

Naught cared she for his land or gold, Her love was for the good squire's son.

He found her as the noonday hush Lay on the world, and called her name.

She looked up, conscious, and her blush A tender interest did proclaim.

For he was Hubert's sire, and she To keep a secret tryst did go.

He said: "Methinks she cares for me"-- That April fool of long ago.

The flattered squire his suit did press Without delay. "Say, wilt thou come,"

He said, with pompous tenderness, "And share my wealth and grace my home?"

"Kind sir," the lovely Betty cried, "I'm but a la.s.s of low degree."

"The love that is controlled by pride Is not true love at all," quoth he.