Part 6 (2/2)

And now, their bold, new-fangled ways Is comin' all about; And I, right in my latter days, Am fairly crowded out!

To-day the preacher, good old dear, With tears all in his eyes, Read, ”I can read my t.i.tle clear To mansions in the skies.”

I al'ays liked that blessed hymn-- I s'pose I al'ays will; It somehow gratifies my whim, In good old Ortonville; But when that choir got up to sing, I couldn't catch a word; They sung the most dog-gondest thing A body ever heard!

Some worldly chaps was standin' near; An' when I see them grin, I bid farewell to every fear, And boldly waded in.

I thought I'd chase their tune along, An' tried with all my might; But though my voice is good an' strong, I couldn't steer it right; When they was high, then I was low, An' also contrawise; An' I too fast, or they too slow, To ”mansions in the skies.”

An' after every verse, you know, They play a little tune; I didn't understand, an' so I started in too soon.

I pitched it pretty middlin' high, I fetched a l.u.s.ty tone, But oh, alas! I found that I Was singin' there alone!

They laughed a little, I am told; But I had done my best; And not a wave of trouble rolled Across my peaceful breast.

And Sister Brown--I could but look-- She sits right front of me; She never was no singin'-book, An' never went to be; But then she al'ays tried to do The best she could, she said; She understood the time right through, An' kep' it with her head; But when she tried this mornin', oh, I had to laugh, or cough!

It kep' her head a-bobbin' so, It e'en a'most came off!

An' Deacon Tubbs--he all broke down, As one might well suppose; He took one look at Sister Brown, And meekly scratched his nose.

He looked his hymn-book through and through, And laid it on the seat, And then a pensive sigh he drew, And looked completely beat.

An' when they took another bout, He didn't even rise; But drawed his red bandanner out, An' wiped his weepin' eyes.

I've been a sister, good an' true, For five-an'-thirty year; I've done what seemed my part to do, An' prayed my duty clear; But Death will stop my voice, I know, For he is on my track; And some day I to church will go, And never more come back; And when the folks gets up to sing-- Whene'er that time shall be-- I do not want no _patent_ thing A-squealin' over me!

THE EDITOR'S GUESTS.

The Editor sat in his sanctum, his countenance furrowed with care, His mind at the bottom of business, his feet at the top of a chair, His chair-arm an elbow supporting, his right hand upholding his head, His eyes on his dusty old table, with different doc.u.ments spread: There were thirty long pages from Howler, with underlined capitals topped, And a short disquisition from Growler, requesting his newspaper stopped; There were lyrics from Gusher, the poet, concerning sweet flow'rets and zephyrs, And a stray gem from Plodder, the farmer, describing a couple of heifers; There were billets from beautiful maidens, and bills from a grocer or two, And his best leader hitched to a letter, which inquired if he wrote it, or who?

There were raptures of praises from writers of the weakly mellifluous school, And one of his rival's last papers, informing him he was a fool; There were several long resolutions, with names telling whom they were by, Canonizing some harmless old brother who had done nothing worse than to die; There were traps on that table to catch him, and serpents to sting and to smite him; There were gift enterprises to sell him, and bitters attempting to bite him; There were long staring ”ads” from the city, and money with never a one, Which added, ”Please give this insertion, and send in your bill when you're _done_;”

There were letters from organizations--their meetings, their wants, and their laws-- Which said, ”Can you print this announcement for the good of our glorious cause?”

There were tickets inviting his presence to festivals, parties, and shows, Wrapped in notes with ”Please give us a notice” demurely slipped in at the close; In short, as his eye took the table, and ran o'er its ink-spattered trash, There was nothing it did not encounter, excepting perhaps it was cash.

The Editor dreamily pondered on several ponderous things.

On different lines of action, and the pulling of different strings; Upon some equivocal doings, and some unequivocal duns; On how few of his numerous patrons were quietly prompt-paying ones; On friends who subscribed ”just to help him,” and wordy encouragement lent, And had given him plenty of counsel, but never had paid him a cent; On vinegar, kind-hearted people were feeding him every hour, Who saw not the work they were doing, but wondered that ”printers are sour:”

On several intelligent townsmen, whose kindness was so without stint That they kept an eye out on his business, and told him just what he should print; On men who had rendered him favors, and never pushed forward their claims, So long as the paper was crowded with ”locals” containing their names; On various other small matters, sufficient his temper to roil, And finely contrived to be making the blood of an editor boil; And so one may see that his feelings could hardly be said to be smooth, And he needed some pleasant occurrence his ruffled emotions to soothe: He had it; for lo! on the threshold, a slow and reliable tread, And a farmer invaded the sanctum, and these are the words that he said:

”Good-mornin', sir, Mr. Printer; how is your body to-day?

I'm glad you're to home; for you fellers is al'ays a runnin' away.

Your paper last week wa'n't so spicy nor sharp as the one week before: But I s'pose when the campaign is opened, you'll be whoopin' it up to 'em more.

That feller that's printin' _The Smasher_ is goin' for you perty smart; And our folks said this mornin' at breakfast, they thought he was gettin'

the start.

But I hushed 'em right up in a minute, and said a good word for you; I told 'em I b'lieved you was tryin' to do just as well as you knew; And I told 'em that some one was sayin', and whoever 'twas it is so, That you can't expect much of no one man, nor blame him for what he don't know.

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