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ALONE she bears the mystic flame,
A torch that like a star doth gleam; A leader, she, without a name:
Alone she bears the mystic flame.
It's still been, as appears,
Some five an' fifty years; It's stood right there, through thick an' thin,
An' kep' track of the sun, An' raked its own opinions in
'Bout what we mortals done; It's hed good watch o'young an' old
(An' looked so mild an' meek!) Some anecdotes ther' would be told,
If our old clock could speak!
Mid clash o'plate an' cup,
An' size the neighbors up;
An seemed to sympathize,
Them solemn key-hole eyes;
O'social hide-an' seek; 'Twould score a number o' the same,
Providin' it could speak!
Unto his parching lips a cup
FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN. – The Critic, June 29, 1889.
An' lef' us chil'run free
“But let the ol' clock be;" An' though we young 'uns (never still)
Hadn't thought o' that before We now couldn't let it ’lone, until
It crashed down on the floor! We tremblin' set it up again,
Half-runnin', with a squeak; 'Twas lucky for our jackets, then,
The critter couldn't speak!
IF OUR OLD CLOCK COULD SPEAK.
1. It isn't a scrumptious thing to see
It's rather short o' paintIt's brow will al’ays wrinkled be
It's tick is growin' faint;
The j'ints too stiffly play-
Forgits the time o' day;
Fur somethin' like a week; But there'd be music, I suspect,
If our ol' clock could speak!
How ol' folks went to church, one night,
An' left us all-sly elves-
A meetin' by ourselves;
Walked in-an' first we knew,
'Snap up and catch 'em," too;
She heard the big gate creak: The ol'clock frowned an' ticked an' struck
But couldn't make out to speak!
Hypocrisy will count not, nor loud vaunts. What canst thou do? What hast thou done for God?" ""Not much, thou holy one; only by every road That dirt may be kept from us; from every nook I thrust it forth-then I'm an accomplished cook! • Cleanliness, O, Saint! we're told in the good
Suppose it had the power!
They turned it back an hour;
The bride's last virgin grace;
A good look at The Face;
An' Nature's every freak;
Ag'in the kitchen wall;
Outlivin' of us all!
As e'en a’most sublime:
Etarnity an' time.
To strike a dreamy streak,
WILL CARLETON. - Ladies' Home Journal, September, 1889.
PASSPORT TO PARADISE.
Is next to godliness—one must be clean to cook
strives To banish taint, impurity, untidiness and pride; But to make clean without, keep the soul free
from stain, Embue the mind with purity, a constant guard
mantain 'Gainst all polluting influences of body, mind and
soul! Sin is a moral filthiness! thou'rt right, cleanse
well the whole; Saint, preacher, missionary, sure art thou; Naught is too good for thee; the angels bow Before thy cleanly usefulness, and every man Approaches nearer God; if clean, he can Behold His brightness; if, while on earth, Man gives not way to impious thoughts; if mirth Instead of sulkiness cheers his clean table; Saint, thou'st done much to humanize; thou'rt able To open wide the gates of Paradise ;—there look! See mankind worshiping the cleanly cook!" “Nay, Saint; forgive, I cannot enter in, Save with my husband; e'en Paradise without
him Would not be perfect; ope again thy book; I will go back to earth, and there will cook Food fit for angels, better than erst the gods On high Olympus feasted!” “Nay child, these
moods Are needless; has he not freely shared with thee All that thou art, and did? Why, then, he's free To enter Paradise! read in this book: 'Safe is the man who's wife's the best of cooks.'"
PROF. SAMUEL R. PERCY, M. D.
To Lucullus, the Patron Saint of Cooks, who was wise
enough to feed his Singers on Vightingales' Tongues. "I never expect any sense worth listening to from a man who
never dares talk nonsense."
My blessed wife! (and may her kind increase)
the Lord. Deeds, and not words, the Heavenly Master
'Twas God who in the olden time
Fashioned a silver moon. "And this," He said, “shall be the eye That, when the midnight of the sky
Has overwhelmed the noon, Shall search the earth for love or crime."
Broad wave on wave of scarlet, fleck'd with gold,
Outstretched beneath an opalescent sky,
Wherein pale tints with glowing colors vie; From their birthplace within the sea are rolled Sweet perfumes by the sea-breeze, strong and cold. There white sails gleam, and soft cloud
shadows lie, And isles are kissed by winds that wanton by, Or rocked by gales, in unchecked passion bold.
Locked in by swelling, fir-clad hills, it liesOne stretch of purpling, heaving gold; serene,
It laughs and dimples under sunset skies, Toward which the chaste Olympics, snow-girt,
ELLA HIGGINSON. - Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper, Aug. 10,1889.
And all obedient to His word,
But with a pallid fear
Might suddenly appear,
And what she saw we do not know,
Or whether 'twas the sight Of Abel lying stiff and cold, Half trodden in the trampled mould,
That filled her with affright, Until she feared her face to show.