People's Pilot, Volume 3, Number 10, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 25 August 1893 — PRETTY POEMS. [ARTICLE]

PRETTY POEMS.

Think It Over. **l» not my price of grade— Be It the very beat that's made— Nor yet by dealing fair; “Tts not by tact nor by address, Nor trick* of salesmanship, much less, Nor buying with great care; But It’s by advertisement's light, Kept trimmed and always burning bright, Men principally get there. —Chicago Dispatch. Just About to Fall. Have yon seen the happy mother when the babe begins to talk? Have you seen her teach the tiny tangled feet the way to walk? Ever near each slender shoulder, yet so feeble and so small. With her ready hands to hold her, when she's just about to fall. Shut your eyes and you oan see her In the baby's childhood days, When the golden gleam of sunset on her tangled tresses plays; And the mother, though grown older, still is near enough to call, With her ready hands to hold her when she's just about to fall Now the baby Is a woman, and she’s bending o'er a bed. Where the spirit from tbs body of her gentle mother fled; As the lifeless limbs grow colder, “Motherl Mother 1” hear her oall, But there are no hands to hold her and she’s just about to fall. Launched alone on life’s rough ocean, she Is drifting with the years, But the voyage Is a lonely one, and, sometimes, through her tears Shs can seem to see her mother; she can almost hear her oall, And by faith she sees another hand to hold her should she fall. —Cy Warman, in N. Y. Sun. Con earning Weather. When th* atmospheric forces and all that sort of thing Bring the cold and outtlng winter season here, And the Iridescent snowflakes of ithlch the poets sing Chase themselves, In chilly frolic, through the air; When the winds are penetrating, and ths frost is on the ground, And pedestrian looomotlon’s rather slow: When the cars are half an hour late whenever homeward bound Because tho horses oan't get through the snow;

Then the voice of man arises and he tells a funny tale As to how he loves the gentle summer days, When the flowers nod and whisper in the lovely hawthorn dale, And.he basks beneath the smiling sun's bright rays. But when the whirligig of time brings “gentle summer” on, And he wilts and melts beneath the scorching disk. The Inconsistent mortal sings another kind o' song, As to how he loves the winter cold and brisk. —Philadelphia Ledger.