It seems a good-sized meetin'-house had given up its pews (The church an' pastor had resigned, from spiritual blues), An' several acres of the floor was made a skatin' ground, Where folks of every shape an' size went skippin' round an' round; An' in the midst a big bra.s.s band was helpin' on the fun, An' everything was gay as sixteen weddin's joined in one.

I've seen small insects crazy-like go circlin' through the air, An' wondered if they thought some time they'd maybe get somewhere; I've seen a million river-bugs go scootin' round an' round, An' wondered what 'twas all about, or what they'd lost or found; But men an' women, boys an' girls, upon a hard-wood floor, All whirlin' round like folks possessed, I never saw before.

An' then it straight came back to me, the things I'd read an' heard About the rinks, an' how their ways was wicked an' absurd; I'd learned somewhere that skatin' wasn't a healthy thing to do-- But there was Doctor Saddlebags--his fam'ly with him, too!

I'd heard that 'twasn't a proper place for Christian folks to seek-- Old Deacon Perseverance Jinks flew past me like a streak!

Then Sister Is'bel Sunnyhopes put on a pair o' skates, An' started off as if she'd run through several different States.

My goodness! how that gal showed up! I never did opine That she could twist herself to look so charmin' an' so fine; And then a fellow that she knew took hold o' hands with her, A sort o' double crossways like, an' helped her, as it were.

_I_ used to skate; an' 'twas a sport of which I once was fond.

Why, I could write my autograph on Tompkins' saw-mill pond.

Of course to slip on runners, that is one thing, one may say, An' movin' round on casters is a somewhat different way; But when the fun that fellow had came flashin' to my eye, I says, "I'm young again; by George, I'll skate once more or die!"

A little boy a pair o' skates to fit my boots soon found-- He had to put 'em on for me (I weigh three hundred pound); An' then I straightened up an' says, "Look here, you younger chaps, You think you're runnin' some'at past us older heads, perhaps.

If this young lady here to me will trust awhile her fate, I'll go around a dozen times an' show you how to skate."

She was a niceish, plump young gal, I'd noticed quite a while, An' she reached out her hands with 'most too daughterly a smile; But off we pushed with might an' main; when all to once the wheels Departed suddenly above, an' took along my heels; My head a.s.sailed the floor as if 'twas tryin' to get through, An' all the stars I ever saw arrived at once in view.

'Twas sing'lar (as not quite unlike a saw-log there I lay) How many of the other folks was goin' that same way; They stumbled over me in one large animated heap, An' formed a pile o' legs an' arms not far from ten foot deep; But after they had all climbed off, in rather fierce surprise, I lay there like a saw-log still--considerin' how to rise.

Then, dignified I rose, with hands upon my ample waist, An' then sat down again with large and very painful haste; An' rose again, and started off to find a place to rest, Then on my gentle stomach stood, an' tore my meetin' vest; When Sister Sunnyhopes slid up as trim as trim could be, An' she an' her young fellow took compa.s.sionate charge o' me.

Then after I'd got off the skates an' flung 'em out o' reach, I rose, while all grew hushed an' still, an' made the followin' speech: "My friends, I've struck a small idea (an' struck it pretty square), Which physic'ly an' morally will some attention bear: Those who their balance can preserve are safe here any day, An' those who can't, I rather think, had better keep away."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "... WHEN ALL TO ONCE THE WHEELS DEPARTED SUDDENLY ABOVE, AN' TOOK ALONG MY HEELS."]

Then I limped out with very strong unprecedented pains, An' hired a horse at liberal rates to draw home my remains; An' lay abed three days, while wife laughed at an' nursed me well, An' used up all the arnica two drug-stores had to sell; An' when Miss Is'bel Sunnyhopes said, "Won't you skate some more?"

I answered, "Not while I remain on this terrestrial sh.o.r.e."

[Ill.u.s.tration: FARMER STEBBINS ON ROLLERS.]

WANT.

[_From Farmer Harrington's Calendar._]

FEBRUARY 5, 18--.

Want--want--want--want! O G.o.d! forgive the crime, If I, asleep, awake, at any time, Upon my bended knees, my back, my feet, In church, on bed, on treasure-lighted street, Have ever _hinted_, or, much less, have pleaded That I hadn't ten times over all I needed!

Lord save my soul! I never knew the way That people starve along from day to day; May gracious Heaven forgive me, o'er and o'er, That I have never found these folks before!

Of course some news of it has come my way, Like a faint echo on a drowsy day; At home I "gave," whene'er by suffering grieved, And called it "Charity," and felt relieved; And thought that I was never undertasked, If I bestowed when with due deference asked.

But no one finds the _poorest poor_, I doubt, Unless he goes himself and hunts them out; And when you get _real suffering_ among, Be thankful if your heart-strings are not wrung!

These thoughts sobbed through me this cold, snowy day, As carefully I picked a dubious way 'Mongst nakedness and want on every side, And a rough, masculine angel for my guide, Who goes about among affliction's heirs, And gives his life to piece out some of theirs.

Up--up--up--up! and yet, I am afraid, Farther from Heaven at every step we made!

Gaunt, hungry creatures stood on every side With cheeks drawn close and sad eyes opened wide, Filled to the brim with greedy, starving prayers, As we went past them up the creaking stairs.

And I peeped into rooms 'twas death to see (Or, rather, they peeped darkly out at me)-- Such as I wouldn't have had the cheek to 've shown To any swine I've ever chanced to own.

'Twas sad to see, in this great misery-cup, How guilt and innocence were all mixed up: Here lay a fellow, stupid, dull, and dumb, Whose breath was like a broken keg of rum; And there a baby, looking scared and odd, Who had not been a week away from G.o.d.

Here a clean woman, toiling for her bread; And there a wretch whose dirty heart was dead.

Here a sound rascal, lazy, loud, and bold; And there the helpless, weak and sick and old.

Want--want! O Lord! forgive me, o'er and o'er, That I haven't found these suffering folks before!

We had a decent poor-house in our town, And I would often drive my spare horse down, And take a little stroll among them there, And try to cheer their every-day despair, And with their little wants and worries join, And c.h.i.n.k round 'mongst them with small bits of coin (Done up in good advice, somewhat severe), And send them Christmas turkeys every year; Then, in my cosy home, think, with a grin, What a fine, liberal angel I had been.

But here, O heavens! I find them, high and low, Hundreds of pauper-houses in a row!

And suffering--suffering--in a shape, I vow, That makes my poor old tears run even now!

For city trouble, any one will find, Is more ingenious than the country kind, And has a thousand cute-invented ways To torture men and shorten off their days.

And while we wonder that G.o.d made it so, He doesn't seem very anxious we should know; But He is willing we should search His plan, And pry around and find out all we can; And I suspect, when pains and troubles fall, That every one is useful, after all.

At any rate, the miseries that I see Are useful in their good effects on me; And though that isn't a great thing, on the whole (Though Heaven _does_ put a premium on each soul), Yet there are several people, I suspect, Who need a little of that same effect; And if they do not get it, old and young, 'Twill be because I've lost my poor old tongue.

One more small portion of G.o.d's plan I see Concerning its effect on "even me:"

And that's its leading me, by methods queer, To be some help to these poor people here.

For now I promise, from this very night, And hereby put it down in black and white, That out of every day that's given me yet, And out of every dollar I can get, And out of every talent, small or large, That G.o.d sees fit to put into my charge, A part shall be devoted--square and sure-- To G.o.d's own suffering, struggling, dying poor!

[_From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book._]

Poverty, why wast thou born In the world's earliest morn?

Why hast thou lived all the years, Sowing thy pains and thy tears?

Roaming about thou art seen, Crooked, decrepit, and lean; Travelling all the world through-- Suffering's "wandering Jew."

Thin and unkempt is thy hair, Fleshless as parchment thy cheek, Sad and ungainly thine air, Hollow the words thou dost speak, Bony and grasping thy hand, Dreary thy days in the land.

Poverty, why wast thou born Under the world's quiet scorn?

Poverty, thou hast been seen Clad in a comelier mien.

Oft, to the clear-seeing eyes, Thou art a saint in disguise.

Discipline rich thou hast brought, Lessons of labor and thought.

Oft, in thy dreariest night, Virtue gleams st.u.r.dy and bright; Oft, from thy scantiest hour, Grow the beginnings of power; Oft, 'mongst thy squalors and needs Live such magnificent deeds As the proud angels will crown There in their gold-streeted town; Oft, from thy high garrets, throng Notes of magnificent song, That, from sad day unto day, Float through the ages away.

Poverty--brave or forlorn-- G.o.d knoweth why thou wast born.

[_From Farmer Harrington's Calendar._]

FEBRUARY 12, 18--.

Wind in the South; a fresh, sweet, winter day; 'Twould have been sad to see it go away, If 'twere not that the sunset's signal-lights Glimmered awhile across the Jersey heights, Then, lightly dancing o'er the river, came And set some New York windows all aflame.

(From a clear sunset I can always borrow G.o.d's sweet half promise of a fair to-morrow.)

But, while I gazed upon that splendid sight, My mind _would_ take a heavy, care-winged flight Up to a small back garret, far away, Where I had stood at two o'clock to-day.