But such as it was, without much risk,
The Collector poured it out;
He spread it round on the parson's desk,
And scattered it all about;
But little of shining gold was there,
And less from the silver mine;
And bank bills-they were exceeding rarel
Alas! for the poor divine.
First came a note for a little sum,
Which the poor man late had given
To a rich parishioner, near his home,
Whom he hoped to meet in heaven;
Ten dollars was all-not much, I know,
But an order followed the note,
With butchers's bill, and a bill or so
For butter and bread, to boot.
The doctor had drawn for his small amount
The grocer had filed his claim,
And all intended their bills should count
Whenever his pay-day came.
The good Collector reckoned them up;
The Minister stood aghast!
'Twas a bitter drug in his brimming cup
To think he had lived so fast.
Who knows what pain the Parson endures
As the good man hands them o'er,
And says with a hem, "Sir, these are yours,
And they should have been paid before;
For a scandal it is to religion, sir,
Which the world can never forget,
When a man of ease, like a minister,
Is unable to pay a debt.
"And here, besides, is a lot of cash-
Three fives and a lusty ten;
Your daughters in satin now may dash,
And your boys dress up like men.
But allow me to say, good Parson Gay,
You'd better just lay aside
A little of this for a rainy day
By a walk instead of a ride.
"For money is scarce, and the times are hard, And you, sir, are getting gray,
And you may not fare as you here have fared Should the people turn you away.
We've given you here a large support,
And the farmers all complain
That the crops this year will be dreadful short
If we don't soon have some rain.
"We can't long pay such enormous sums
As we have to pay you now,
For you know the pay-day often comes,
And the Squire has lost a cow;
And one of old Goodwin's sheep is dead,
And he feels poor this year;"
The tender shepherd here turned his head,
To drop-for the sheep-a tear !
Of this the Collector no note took;
He gabbled his story through,
Then slowly folded his pocket-book,
And looked as if he knew.
He took his hat with a cheerful smile,
Rejoicing in duty done;
Then rode away to his home, a mile,
At set of December's sun.
The Parson rose as he left the room,
And bowed with a smile of grace;
But his heart resembled a ruined tomb
In spite of his smiling face.
He closed his door, and resumed his chair,
Till, amid his griefs and fears,
He seemed half choked for a breath of air,
Then burst in a flood of tears.
He thought of his children's needy feet,
His barrel of meal was gone;
And the question arose, "What shall we eat?
What raiment shall we put on ?"
He thought of the ravens, how they're fed,
How the lilies' garments grow;
But when was a raven's rent unpaid?
Or a lily arrayed for snow?
With tender emotions all astir
In the Parson's heaving breast,
His children's mother-he thought of her-
How she, who had done her best,
Still needed a hood, and cloth, and thread,
A dress, and a thicker shawl;
Till, pressed in spirit, he knelt and prayed
To the glorious Lord of all.
The evening came, and he met his wife,
And his blooming children nine;
Yet naught they saw of the inward strife
That harassed the sad divine.
He sat serene in the central seat,
And his wife sewed near his side;
His children hovered about his feet,
And he to be cheerful tried.
But when he went to his nightly bed,
To sleep till the waking morn,
He felt, as he pillowed his aching head,
That he wished he had ne'er been born,
And all that night was his pillow drowned
With the tears no eye could see,
But His who once for the thankless groaned,
And bled upon Calvary's tree.
VAT HAVE I GOT TO PAY?-W. H. FREEMAN.
A SAILOR Once, his pockets filled with gold,
Having once heard the sights of London told,
Determin'd that the joys of town he'd taste,
And thither go with all convenient baste;
But first he says, "Avast, and let me see,
What though I am inclined a fool to be,
Shiver my timbers if I throw away
My cash, and save none for a rainy day;
In vain to Portsmouth I may try to steer
Without the comfort of a drop of beer-
On rocks and quicksands I may chance to run,
And founder in the midst of all my fun!
Stop, splice my mainsails, if I've not a thought,
Which, if I'm cast away, may yield support."
Inspired by grog, he makes no longer stay,
But mounts the upper deck and sails away.
The stage drives on-now, to change horses stays,
While Jack with pride his purse of gold surveys.
"Bring me a glass of grog!" he loudly cries,
The waiter on the errand briskly flies;
Sly Jack, the landlord takes aside alone,
And thus begins his tale in under tone :-
"I'm on a cruise to town, d'ye hear, my friend,
And to cast anchor some short time intend;
But should I chance somehow to run a-ground,
I then immediately am homeward bound;
Bat that, d'ye see, no evil may betide,
I for my voyage back will thus provide :—
I'll pay you double now for all I have,
And a secure return by this means save;
And mark, when back to port I'm on my way,
got to pay-
I merely ask what have
And on my stick by twirling thus my hat,
You surely will the arrangement not forget."
Thus 'twas agreed, and at each house he stayed,
With every landlord this same bargain made.
In town arrived, poor Jack, on frolic bent,
Became an easy dupe, his money spent,
And when he found his only shilling gone,
Mounted the self-same coach to reach his home.
One of the tribe of Israel, who sat
By Jack, and saw the wonders of the hat,
Felt all his conscience go, and how to obtain
This wondrous hat, now puzzled much his brain.
"Vy, plesh my heart," he cried, in great amaze,
"Not for one single thing this sailor pays;
I do not understand why for is dat,
Unless dere be some witchcraft in dat hat;
If I could get dat hat what would I give,
'Twould keep me all the days vat I shall live."
At length, in undervoice, to Jack he said,
"Dat is a shabby hat upon your head;
Now I'll sell you a new one, if you please,
If you and I for dat old bat agrees;
Vat vill you take?"-Jack plainly saw his aim,
And said, "If you will give what I shall name,
The hat is yours-you see its use, no doubt-
So either give my price or go without;
You've got a watch, I want one, give me that,
And for ten pounds beside I'll sell the hat."
"What!" cried the Jew, "el, vere's your conscience gone?
Ten pounds for that old shabby hat alone."
"Ten pound!" bawls Jack, "and just what I have said,
Or not for you the hat comes off my head.'
The Jew then gave the watch, besides ten pounds,
And scarcely could he keep his joy in bounds;
At the first inn' he stops and takes a chair,
Determined he will end his journey there;
"Here, waiter, here!" he bawls, "I want to dine,
Make haste and bring a bottle of good wine;
Bring me Champagne, for I would have you know,
Dat I can pay, you dog, where'er I go;
I've got de cash-dat is, I've bought de hat
Look here- ok here-there, vat d'ye think of dat?"
Ilis dinner ended, loud he calls-"I say
llere, vaiter, vat have I got to pay ?"
And on his stick twirling the sailor's hat
Exulting cries-there-vat do you think of dat?
Eh, el dis hat 'twill pay for everything,
I would not part with it to be a king."
The waiter wondering at the whim he sees,
Replies, "Two pounds your reck'ning, if you pleasə.”
"Eh? what! two pounds! what impudence is dat?
Look here, you dog, d'ye see? Behold the hat!
Dis hat's mine, now-dis hat is mine, you know;
Dere, dere, see there-vat have I got to pay now ?"
The waiter, laughing cries-" The sailor's hat,
Ha, ha, ha, ha! I see now what you are at."
The Jew enraged, when the deceit he knew,
Straight at the waiter's head the hat he threw,
And madly from the house he ran away,
Still bawling out-" Vat have I got to pay?"
IF I were told that I must die to-morrow,
That the next sum
Which sinks should bear me past all fear and sorrow
fought, all the short journey through,
What should I do?
I do not think that I should shrink or falter,
But just go on,
Doing my work, nor change nor seek to alter
Aught that is gone;
But rise and move and love and smile and pray
For one more day.
And, lying down at night for a last sleeping,
Say in that ear
Which hearkens ever: "Lord, within thy keeping
How should I fear?
And when to-morrow brings Thee ncarer still
Do Thou Thy will."
I might not sleep for awe; but peaceful, tender,
My soul would lie
All the night long; and when the morning splendor
Flushed o'er the sky,
I think that I could smile-could calmly say,
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