“Blessed are the”—­There’s a blackbird, outside, sittin’ on a limb,—­
Gosh!  I wish it wasn’t Sunday, p’raps I wouldn’t go for him. 
Sis says stonin’ birds is wicked, but she’s got one on her hat,—­
S’pose that makes it right and proper, if yer kill ’em just for that. 
There’s that dudey city feller, sittin’ in the Deacon’s pew. 
Needn’t feel so big now, Smarty, just because your clothes are new;
Me and Sam has rigged a hat line; when it’s dark to-morrer night
We’ll just catch your shiny beaver and we’ll send it out of sight.

“Blessed are”—­There’s Mr. Wiggin sound asleep.  I wish he’d snore. 
Cracky!  Now he’s been and done it, dropped his hymn-book on the floor. 
See how cross his wife is lookin’.  Say, I bet they’ll have a row;
Pa said that she wore the breeches, but she’s got a dress on now. 
There’s Nell Baker with her uncle.  Her ’n I don’t speak at school,
’Cause she wouldn’t help a feller when I clean forgot the rule. 
Used to be my girl before that—­Gee! what was that text about? 
“Blessed—­blessed—­blessed” something.  I’ll ask Sis when we get out.

* * * * *

“TAKIN’ BOARDERS”

We’d never thought of takin’ ’em,—­’t was Mary Ann’s idee,—­ Sence she got back from boardin’-school she’s called herself “Maree” An’ scattered city notions like a tom-cat sheds his fur.  She thought our old melodeon wa’n’t good enough fer her, An’ them pianners cost so that she said the only way Was ter take in summer boarders till we ’d made enough to pay; So she wrote adver_tis_ements out to fetch ’em inter camp, An’ now there’s boarders thicker here than June bugs round a lamp.

Our best front parlor’ll jest be sp’iled; they h’ist up every shade
An’ open all the blinds, by gum! an’ let the carpet fade. 
They’re in there week days jest the same as Sunday; I declare,
I really think our haircloth set is showin’ signs o’ wear! 
They set up ha’f the night an’ sing,—­no use ter try ter sleep,
With them a-askin’ folks ter “Dig a grave both wide an’ deep,”
An’ “Who will smoke my mashum pipe?” By gee!  I tell yer what: 
If they want me to dig their graves, I’d jest as soon as not!

There ain’t no comfort now at meals; I can’t take off my coat,
Nor use my knife to eat, nor tie my napkin ’round my throat,
Nor drink out of my sasser.  Gosh!  I hardly draw my breath
‘Thout Mary Ann a-tellin’ me she’s “mortified to death!”
Before they came our breakfast time was allus ha’f-past six;
By thunderation! ’t wouldn’t do; you’d orter hear the kicks! 
So jest to suit ’em ’t was put off till sometime arter eight,
An’ when a chap gits up at four that’s mighty long ter wait.