I sez ter her, "Our breakfasts ain't much fun fer me or you; Seems's if two lonesome meals might make one social one fer two." She blushed so red that I did, too, and I got sorter 'fraid That she was mad, and, like a fool, come home; I wish I'd stayed! I'd like ter know, now, if she thinks that Clark's a pretty name-- 'Cause, if she do'n't, and fancies mine, we'll make 'em both the same. I think I'll go and ask her, 'cause 't would ease my mind a sight Ter know 't wa'n't quite so lonesome fer the Widder Clark ter-night. * * * * * FRIDAY EVENING MEETINGS Oh, the Friday evening meetings in the vestry, long ago, When the prayers were long and fervent and the anthems staid and slow, Where the creed was like the pewbacks, of a pattern straight and stiff, And the congregation took it with no doubting "but" or "if," Where the girls sat, fresh and blooming, with the old folks down before, And the boys, who came in later, took the benches near the door. Oh, the Friday evening meetings, how the ransomed sinners told Of their weary toils and trials ere they reached the blessed fold; How we trembled when the Deacon, with a saintly relish, spoke Of the fiery place of torment till we seemed to smell the smoke; And we all joined in "Old Hundred" till the rafters seemed to ring When the preacher said, "Now, brethren: Hallelujah! Let us sing." Oh, the Friday evening meetings, and the waiting 'round about, 'Neath the lamplight, at the portal, just to see when _she_ came out, And the whispered, anxious question, and the faintly murmured "Yes," And the soft hand on your coat-sleeve, and the perfumed, rustling dress,-- Oh, the Paradise of Heaven somehow seemed to show its worth When you walked home with an angel through a Paradise on earth. Oh, the Friday evening meetings, and the happy homeward stroll, While the moonlight softly mingled with the love-light in your soul; Then the lingering 'neath the lattice where the roses hung above, And the "good-night" kiss at parting, and the whispered word of love,-- Ah, they lighted Life's dark highway with a sweet and sacred glow From the Friday evening meetings in the vestry, long ago. * * * * * THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER Little foot, whose lightest pat Seems to glorify the mat, Waving hair and picture hat, Grace the nymphs have taught her; Gown the pink of fit and style, Lips that ravish when they smile,-- Like a vision, down the aisle Comes the parson's daughter. As she passes, like a dart To each luckless fellow's heart Leaps a throbbing thrill and smart, When his eye has sought her; Tries he then his sight to bless With one glimpse of face or tress-- Does she know it?--well, I guess! Parson's pretty daughter.