Part 19 (1/2)

”Yes, and it may be worth a great deal more to you than the 'show' would have been.”

THE OLD MAN AT THE COTTAGE DOOR.

Come, faint old man! and sit awhile Beside our cottage door; A cup of water from the spring, A loaf to bless the poor, We give with cheerful hearts, for G.o.d Hath given us of his store.

Too feeble, thou, for daily toil, Too weak to earn thy bread-- For th' weight of many, many years, Lies heavy on thy head-- A wanderer, want, thy weary feet, Hath to our cottage led.

Come rest awhile. 'Twill not be long, Ere thy faint head shall know A deeper, calmer, better rest, Than cometh here below; When He, who loveth every one, Shall call thee hence to go.

G.o.d bless thee in thy wanderings!

Wherever they may be, And make the ears of every one Attentive to thy plea; A double blessing will be theirs, Who kindly turn to thee.

STORY OF A STOLEN PEN.

WRITTEN BY ITSELF.

My friend, Theodore Thinker, who is an odd sort of a genius, and frequently takes up things after a singular fas.h.i.+on, has put into my hands a paper with this caption: ”Story of a Stolen Pen, written by itself.” It seems, from a somewhat lengthy introduction--too lengthy to be here quoted--that the pen once belonged to some editor or another; and as Theodore has something to do with editorial matters himself, I should not wonder if he is the one. Some curious readers may be disposed to inquire how the pen was made to talk so fluently, and perhaps some others would like to know how it was found in the first place. I can't answer these reasonable inquiries. The ma.n.u.script is entirely silent on both points. I have my conjectures in relation to the thing--pretty strong conjectures, too. I guess the whole story is a fable, to tell the truth. But never mind. There is a great deal of sense in fables sometimes; and who knows but there may be some in this? At all events, we must have

THE STORY.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE THIEF STEALING THE PEN.]

I wish you could have seen the thief in the act of stealing me. What a sorry face he had on! I send you a rough sketch of him--for I have a little talent at drawing--taken from memory. I was lying on the desk, close by a ma.n.u.script which I had commenced. He s.n.a.t.c.hed me as soon as the editor's back was turned, and ran out of the office. I wonder the people did not notice that he was a rogue as he pa.s.sed along the street.