In this existunce, dry and wet Will overtake the best of men-- Some little skift o' clouds'll shet The sun off now and then.-- And mayby, whilse you're wundern who You've fool-like lent your umbrell' to, And _want_ it--out'll pop the sun, And you'll be glad you hain't got none! It aggervates the farmers, too-- They's too much wet, er too much sun, Er work, er waitin' round to do Before the plowin' 's done: And mayby, like as not, the wheat, Jest as it's lookin' hard to beat, Will ketch the storm--and jest about The time the corn's a-jintin' out. These-here _cy-clones_ a-foolin' round-- And back'ard crops!--and wind and rain!-- And yit the corn that's wallerd down May elbow up again!-- They hain't no sense, as I can see, Fer mortuls, sich as us, to be A-faultin' Natchur's wise intents, And lockin' horns with Providence! It hain't no use to grumble and complane; It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice.-- When God sorts out the weather and sends rain, W'y, rain's my choice. THOUGHTS ON A PORE JOKE I like fun--and I like jokes 'Bout as well as most o' folks!-- Like my joke, and like my fun;-- But a joke, I'll state right here, 'S got some p'int--er I don't keer Fer no joke that hain't got none.-- I hain't got no use, I'll say, Fer a _pore_ joke, anyway! F'rinstunce, now, when _some_ folks gits To relyin' on theyr wits, Ten to one they git too smart And _spile_ it all, right at the start! Feller wants to jest go slow And do his _thinkin'_ first, you know. 'F I can't think up somepin' good, I set still and chaw my cood! 'F you _think_ nothin'--jest keep on, But don't _say_ it--er you're gone! A MORTUL PRAYER Oh! Thou that vaileth from all eyes The glory of Thy face, And setteth throned behind the skies In Thy abiding-place: Though I but dimly recko'nize Thy purposes of grace; And though with weak and wavering Deserts, and vexd with fears, I lift the hands I can not wring All dry of sorrow's tears, Make puore my prayers that daily wing Theyr way unto Thy ears! Oh! with the hand that tames the flood And smooths the storm to rest, Make ba'mmy dews of all the blood That stormeth in my brest, And so refresh my hart to bud And bloom the loveliest. Lull all the clammer of my soul To silunce; bring release Unto the brane still in controle Of doubts; bid sin to cease, And let the waves of pashun roll And kiss the shores of peace.