Say! a minister, you'd reckon, never 'd say what wasn't true; But that isn't so with ours, and I jest can prove it, too; 'Cause when Sis plays on the organ so it makes yer want ter die, Why, he sets and says it's lovely; and that, seems ter me, 's a lie: But I like him all the samey, and I only wish he'd stay At our house fer good and always, and eat with us every day; Only think of havin' goodies _every_ evenin'! Jimmi_nee_! And I'd _never_ git a scoldin' with the minister ter tea! * * * * * "YAP" I've got a little yaller dog, a wuthless kind of chap, Who jest ain't good fer nothin' but ter eat and sleep and "yap." Fer all 'round general wuthlessness I never see his beat, And yet he makes more fuss and noise than all the farm complete. There ain't a mite of sense inside that yaller hide of his; But, as _he_ ain't no good, he likes ter pester them that is. The critters all despise him, but there ain't a one but feels A little mite oneasy when he's "yappin'" round their heels. Yer see, he loves ter sneak around behind 'em, out of sight, And give a sudden snap and snarl as if he meant ter bite; Of course they know he wouldn't hurt, and only means to scare, But still, it worries 'em ter know the little scamp is there; And if they do git nervous-like and try to hit him back He swells up so with pride it seems as if his skin would crack; And then he's wuss than ever, so they find it doesn't pay, But let him keep on "yappin'" till he's tired and goes away. There's lots of people built like him--yer see 'em everywhere-- Who, 'cause they ain't no use themselves, can't somehow seem ter bear Ter see another feller rise, but in their petty spite And natural meanness, snarl and snap and show they'd like ter bite. They don't come out in front like men, and squarely speak their mind, But like that wuthless yaller pup, they're hangin' 'round behind. They're little and contemptible, but if yer make a slip It must be bothersome ter know they'll take that chance ter nip. But there! perhaps it isn't right ter mind 'em, after all; Perhaps we ought ter thank the Lord _our_ souls ain't quite so small; And they, with all their sneakin' ways, must be, I rather guess, The thorns that prick your fingers 'round the roses of success: Fer, when yer come ter think of it, they never bark until A feller's really started and a good ways up the hill; So, 'f I was climbin' up ter fame I wouldn't care a rap, But I'd think I _was_ somebody when the curs begun ter "yap." * * * * * THE MINISTER'S WIFE She's little and modest and purty, As red as a rose and as sweet; _Her_ children don't ever look dirty, Her kitchen ain't no way but neat. She's the kind of a woman ter cherish, A help ter a feller through life, Yet every old hen in the parish Is down on the minister's wife.