VI.
A Song of Green Valleys! O, valleys that spread
From the croon of the babe to the dirge of the dead,
Beyond the long journey we leave you,—but then,
God grant we shall meet you and have you again!
Ate Boys Himself.
He was a four year old Oklahoma Fountleroy, in knee pants, and with golden curls that would make an angel envious. His face still wore the divine beauty of the cradle, and his large, luminous eyes reflected an innocence unspotted of the world.
But the carpenter on the building did not appreciate his company. He was always in the way. So the carpenter thought he would frighten him away, by a story of horrible danger.
"Do you see that big man coming there?" said the carpenter to him.
The child nodded assent.
"Well," continued the carpenter; "you would better run away before he gets you. That big man eats a boy for breakfast every morning, and he may eat you."
A look of ineffable scorn slowly penetrated beneath the curls. The large, innocent eyes took on an expression of supreme contempt. Then the angel indifferently said:
"I ate a boy once; he was a nigger!"
Caught on the Fly.
A drummer is known by the stories he tells.
Don't be in a hurry to do a mean thing. You'll have plenty of time to get sorry if you put it off until day after tomorrow.
When a man stops to count the cost of a noble deed, temptation has already stormed and captured the fortifications of his honor.
The $1 bill is a very popular brand among the people, but if history makes no mistake, it takes the $1,000 bill to secure votes in the Missouri legislature.
The Kingbolt Philosopher.
"I notice," said Uncle Ezra Mudge, "Thet the self-made man is always kept so busy tellin' about the fine job of work he turned out, thet he never has time to get the roof on an' the doors an' winders hung. A self-made feller generally shows a rough job put together with dull tools an' in mighty poor taste when you git to lookin' at it real clost, an' it could be mightily improved on by a middlin' sight of polishin', wood-filler an' hard-oil, well rubbed in!"
"What Shall It Matter, Dear?"
[I.]
What shall it matter, Dear, how goes the weather.—
We with our hands and our hearts linked together,—
We with our faces, till daisies we're under,
Set to the skies with their welcomes of wonder.