In these last days, a man is known by the patent medicine promoter to whom he sends his testimonial photograph. The man who gets stooped shoulders from carrying other people's heavy burdens went to the wrong school in his youth. Religion is a mighty good thing, but it never pays the rent bill; and the Christianity of warm clothes and wholesome food beats its balance on the record books of the angels. "'Twill All Come Right." O, brother, don't you worry, When the sorrow brings the night! It is never long till morning, And 'twill all come right. Do the loads seem hard and heavy As you bear them with your might? Love will lift the bending burdens, And 'twill all come right! Do you feel the hate and malice Of the foolish ones that fight? They will find your heart is worthy, And 'twill all come right! Do your duty to the utmost! Then the foes shall vanish quite; Let the world howl on with censure,-- It will all come right! God awaits us over yonder, Where his lilies blossom white; In his love the griefs shall perish, And 'twill all come right! The happy days when the mistletoe makes raptures for young hearts and loving lips will soon come 'round again. Heaven grant us all to be young and confiding enough for all the love and joy and the glad music of the Christmas times! Good-bye to Trouble. O, it's good-bye, Mister Trouble! There's a joy the angels know, With the mistletoe above us And our sweet-hearts here below! Then play the fiddle, Mister! Love and laughter are in sight; And swing your partners, fellers, Till the dawning of the light! O, its good-bye, Mister Trouble! For the fiddle says, "Be gay!" There's the mistletoe up yonder, And we kiss the griefs away! Caught on the Fly. All things are forgiven to the woman who holds her tongue. The greatest vice of the women is gossip, and the greatest folly of the men is greed. If some people get to heaven, no one will be more surprised at the achievement than themselves. Troubles have walked the highways of human life since the morning stars sang together; and yet when we meet them on the dusty roads we travel, we pretend astonishment and annoy high heaven with our cries. Too Much Prosperity. "Dis heah big cotton crap am a great calam'ty toh de cullud folks," said old Black Mose dejectedly. "How is that, Uncle?" inquired the astonished white man. "So many ob 'em hab sabed up emuff money toh buy tall hats en long--tailed coats dat de conf'rences will all be jam-full ob cullud preachehs befoh spring, en de cotton-fiel's'll miss some mighty good han's nex' season, shuah!" was the reply. Little Sermons. Don't go too much on the sensibilities. Feelings are a mighty poor regulator when it comes to determining the necessity for hard work.