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often catch their opponents napping, and rarely get caught themselves. Everybody likes them " in the field;" and they often make "home runs." They fail at the "bat,” but get a good many bats. As “tallyists,” they make their "innings; " but they are not good "umpires," being apt to raise a row.
Mosquitoes, like dogs, have their days. In dog days, dogs are expected to go mad. Mosquito days begin with dog days, and end with the first frost. Then they die happy ; they gather in large bands under the trees, and there, flying up and down, they sing their death song. Man exults in their death; the mosquitoes exult; all is exultant; and soon after the Governor appoints Thanksgiving.
OUR MINISTER'S SERMON.
"Don't be afraid of givin';
Why, what's the use of livin'?"
“There's Brown, the mis'rable sinner,
A cent towards buyin' a dinner."
I tell you our minister is prime, he is;
But I couldn't quite determine,
Just who was hit by his sermon.
When he talked of long-winded prayin'
At every word he was sayin'.
And the minister he went on to say,
"There's various kinds of cheatin', And religion's as good for every day
As it is to bring to meetin'.
I don't think much of the man that gives
The loud amens at my preachin',
In cheatin' and overreachin'!".
I guess that dose was bitter enough
For a man like Jones to swallow; But I noticed he didn't open his mouth
Not once, after that, to holler;
Of course, I said it quiet-
It's very refreshin' diet.
The minister hit 'em every time,
And when he spoke of fashion,
As woman's rulin' passion,
I could't help a-winkin'
And I guess it sot her thinkin'.
Says I to myself, that sermon's pat;
But man is a queer creation, .
Won't take the application.
My personal mode of sinnin',
And not set there a-grinnin'. '
Just then the minister says, says he,
“And now I've come to the fellers Who've lost this shower by usin' their friends
As a sort o' moral umbrellas,
Go home," says he, "and find your faults,
Instead of huntin' your brothers'.
You tried to fit for others.”
My wife she nudged, and Brown he winked,
And there was lots o'smiling'. And lots o' looking at our pew,
It sot my blood a-bilin',
Is gettin' a little bitter;
Ain't at all that kind of a critter.
THE BEAUTIFUL BALLAD OF WASKA WEE.
Her voice was sweet as a ban-do-lin,
Now, lovely Waska Singty Wee,
This Turkish man a turban had,
“Oh, fly with me to my own Turkee!
Now simple Waska Singty Wee,
But though her heart was full of glee
Then this horrid, sly, old Turkish man
Then flew the maid to the Mi-ca-do,
Now the Mi-ca-do was wondrous wise,
Then flew the maid to the court of Lords, Where every man wore a brace of swords, And bade them name what sum would be hers When the Turk should go to his forefathers.
They sat in council from dawn till night,
And the end of it all, as you well might know,
Upon his face a frown;
Yet gravely he looked down.
The parson strode by the garden path,
Beneath the apple trees,
Died 'mid the stir of bees.
The parson reclined in his study chair,
The ink on his pen was dry,
He heaved a mournful sigh.
But he suddenly cast his pen aside,
And pacing to and fro,