ng enough for all the love and joy and the glad music of the
Christmas times!

Good-bye to Trouble.

O, it's good-bye, Mister Trouble!
There's a joy the angels know,
With the mistletoe above us
And our sweet-hearts here below!

Then play the fiddle, Mister!
Love and laughter are in sight;
And swing your partners, fellers,
Till the dawning of the light!

O, its good-bye, Mister Trouble!
For the fiddle says, "Be gay!"
There's the mistletoe up yonder,
And we kiss the griefs away!

Caught on the Fly.

All things are forgiven to the woman who holds her tongue.

The greatest vice of the women is gossip, and the greatest folly of the
men is greed.

If some people get to heaven, no one will be more surprised at the
achievement than themselves.

Troubles have walked the highways of human life since the morning stars
sang together; and yet when we meet them on the dusty roads we travel,
we pretend astonishment and annoy high heaven with our cries.

Too Much Prosperity.

"Dis heah big cotton crap am a great calam'ty toh de cullud folks," said
old Black Mose dejectedly.

"How is that, Uncle?" inquired the astonished white man.

"So many ob 'em hab sabed up emuff money toh buy tall hats en
long--tailed coats dat de conf'rences will all be jam-full ob cullud
preachehs befoh spring, en de cotton-fiel's'll miss some mighty good
han's nex' season, shuah!" was the reply.

Little Sermons.

Don't go too much on the sensibilities. Feelings are a mighty poor
regulator when it comes to determining the necessity for hard work.

The days of the gray hairs and wrinkled brows utter few petitions to the
merry god of all the happy Christmas eves; but if they asked of Santa
Claus the supremest gift in all the world of men, they would implore him
for one more Christmas as happy and as innocent as smiled upon them in
the days of childhood long ago!

To the Lonesome Fiddle.

You needn't look so lonesome, Mr. Fiddle, hanging there
With the pretty girls about you and the pleasures every where;
For I know your heart is heaven with its music angel sweet,
And it all will go to singing at the coming of the feet!

Then don't you look so lonesome!
The happy days we'll meet;
For the Christmas times are coming
And the dancing of the feet.

You needn't look so lonesome! In your happy soul abound
All the