e!" How slight
The gifts of God we grateful bless,
While countless treasures of delight
Escape the praise of thankfulness!
Through days of sunshine and of rain,
Through nights of griefs and rhapsody,
How I forget with high disdain
How much the Lord is good to me!

Caught on the Fly.

In these days of beef trust domination, every man is known by the
breakfast food he eats.

The charity that covers a multitude of sins generally runs mighty short
of blankets in the winter time.

Fishing poles are now out of date, but the candidates are bidding mighty
lively for the pole that is long enough to reach the persimmon.

A Doubtful Voter.

"Well, Jimmy, how's your Pa getting along with his corn-shucking and
cotton picking?" inquired Bill Smith of his neighbor's son, which
neighbor was noted for his industry and thrifty habits.

"Pap's gittin' erlong fine with 'em," answered the boy. "Ye see there's
five county tickets in the field a-runnin' this year, an' pap's a
doubtful voter; an' whenever a candidate comes, pap jes' goes erlong
shuckin' corn or pickin' cotton, an' the candidate helps him fer the
sake of comp'ny. We've got all our corn shucked, en ef we hev no bad
weather, there won't be cotton enough left to pick by 'lection day to
lint yer whiskers with!"

Another Vintage.

"It is more of the Spirit of '76 that we need!" shouted the campaign
orator.

"I haven't any of the spirits of '76," broke in a bystander in the
audience. "But I've a quart of 'white mule' here in my pocket as fine as
was ever brewed, if that will relieve your wants any!"

Providence Takes Care of his Own.

"De Lawd am pow'ful good to de culled fokes," said a negro philosopher
speaking from his dusky meditations. "No soonah am de wohtah-millions
gone de way ob all de yarth dan de pahsimmons git ripe ernuff toh make
de possum fat, bress de Lawd!"

Forgotten.

He conquered all the foes that bannered wrong;
He strove with might and did heroic deeds;
Yet nameless he; for to his lofty meeds
None wrought the immortality of song.

Give Us More.

No matter how the world may go,
How high it heaps our store,
For all the joys that banish woe
We always wish for more!

And from the cares that fume and fret,
We cry as e'er before:
"We thank thee, Lord, for what we get,
But give us more,--still more!"

In Yearn