TEDDY'S QUERY

One brother was tall and slim, The other chubby and short,-- Teddy sat looking at them one night, Apparently lost in thought.

"Mamma," he asked, at length, "Which would you like the best,-- For me to grow _north_ and _south_, like Tom, Or like Willie, from _east_ to _west_?"

THE SEVEN SLEEPERS

Curly-headed Baby Tom Sleeps in cozy blankets warm, In his crib.

Bob-o'-Lincoln--oh, so wise!

Goes to sleep 'neath sunny skies, 'Mid the leaves.

Mr. Bruin, night and day, Snoozes all his time away, In his cave.

Squirrel-Red, with nuts--a store!

In hollow tree-trunk loves to snore, In the wood.

Mrs. Woodchuck 'neath some knoll, Drowses in her bed--a hole!

Deep in earth.

Floweret bulbs nestled together, Doze all through the wintry weather, 'Neath the snow.

In the chrysalis hard by, Dreams the sometime b.u.t.terfly, In corner hid.

Oh, what beds! So very queer!

Yet to each one just as dear As yours to you!

BRIDGES WE NEVER CROSS

We fall in the habit too often I fear, Of crossing the bridges we never draw near; Though they loom up before us--they seem just ahead, There's a turn and our feet are in other paths led.

We dread the to-morrow, its toil and its care, And feel that its burdens we never can bear; But when the to-morrow blends into to-day, The yesterday's burdens have all slipped away!

Too often we hear: "Yes; 'tis pleasant this morn, But it's a weather breeder, sure's you are born!"

So, much of G.o.d's sunshine and beauty about Is forced from our lives by "perhaps" or a doubt!

Make use of the present--to-morrow may wait,-- To-day's joys _to-morrow_ are realized too late!

Let none of life's pleasures, G.o.d-given, be lost, By crossing a bridge--till it has to be crossed!

A POOR TOWN TO LIVE IN

There's a queer little town--I wonder if you've seen it,-- "Let-some-one-else-do-it" is the name of the place, And all of the people who've lived there for ages, Their family tree from the Wearies can trace!

The streets of this town, so ill-kept and untidy, And almost deserted from morning till noon, Are "In-just-a-minute"--you'll see on the lamppost,-- "O-well-there's-no-hurry," and "Yes-pretty-soon."

The princ.i.p.al work that they do in this hamlet, (There isn't a person who thinks it a crime), Is loafing and dozing, but most of the people Are engaged in the traffic of _just-killing-time_!

I pray you, don't dwell in this town overcrowded; There are others near by it most wondrous fair; The roads that lead to them--and each one is open,-- Are "Push," "Pluck," and "Ready," "This minute," and "Dare."

WITH THOSE WHO CAN'T KEEP UP

It is human nature maybe to be borne 'long with the crowd, And when they shout and hollo, to hollo just as loud; But there's a sight o' pleasure like a draught from nectar's cup, In just a-loitering back along with those who can't keep up.

One needn't think the only men G.o.d ever made are those Who wear the finest linen and the latest cut in clothes,-- I find patriotism, honor, and fidelity to truth, In the man whose outward bearing often is the most uncouth.

In the weather-beaten cottage where the eaves 'most touch the door, Whose shingles are quite hidden with the moss that's gathered o'er, There is still the old-time altar, where duly morn and night, The inmates bow and ask the Lord to guide their steps aright.

The gentlest words are spoken when the heart is sad with woe, And the rarest wisdom emanates from those whose steps are slow, And those whose eyes are blind to sights that glisten for a day, See glories far transcendent that can never fade away.

So I like to loiter back a bit; the crowd may surge along.

Perhaps for some it's pleasant thus to jostle with the throng; But I find my life grows richer, even drinking sorrow's cup, With the weary and unfortunate who cannot quite keep up!

HEROES

There are heroes who fall 'mid the carnage of battle, There are those who meet death on the foam,-- But greater are those who, unheralded, battle With Fate for the loved ones at home!

IN SLEIGHING TIME

There is magic in the jingle of the sleighbells, don't you know, That sets the blood a-tinglin' till the cheeks are all a-glow; An' the cares that press upon one, in the merry winter weather, At the jingle of the sleighbells dance off lighter than a feather,-- How the jingle, An' the ringle, Raises lowest spirits high!

Hark! the tingle, Jingle, tingle!

As the cutter dashes by!