We're always glad when he drops in--the pilgrim with the cheerful grin, who won't admit that grief and sin, are in possession; there are so many here below, who coax their briny tears to flow, and talk forevermore of woe, with no digression! The man who takes the cheerful view has friends to burn, and then a few; they like to hear his glad halloo, and loud ki-yoodle; they like to hear him blithely swear that things are right side up with care; they like to hear upon the air, his cock-a-doodle. The Long Felt Want he amply fills; he is a tonic for the ills that can't be reached with liver pills, or porous plasters; he helps to make the desert bloom; he plants the grouches in the tomb; he's here to dissipate the gloom of life's disasters! _A Few Remarks_ I gaily sought the picnic ground, where children sported in the shade; with them I frolicked round and round, and drank with them red lemonade; and life seemed very full and sweet, as joyous as the song of larks, until a guy got on his feet, and said he'd make a few remarks. I journeyed to the county fair, to view the products of the farm; I marveled at the pumpkins there, and carrots longer than your arm; and happiness was over all, there was no sign of care that carks, until a man, with lots of gall, got up to make a few remarks. Oh, I was born for joy and glee, to sing as blithely as the birds! My life, that should so sunny be, is darkened by a cloud of words; and when my prospects seem most fair, and trouble for its bourne embarks, some Windy Jim is always there, to rise and make a few remarks. _Little Things_ Little drops of water poured into the milk, give the milkman's daughters lovely gowns of silk. Little grains of sugar, mingled with the sand, make the grocer's assets swell to beat the band. Little bowls of custard, humble though they seem, help enrich the fellow selling pure ice cream. Little rocks and boulders, little chunks of slate, make the coal man's fortune something fierce and great. Little ads, well written, printed nice and neat, give the joyful merchants homes on Easy Street. _The Umpire_ When the home team loses a well fought game, it causes a lot of woe, but nothing is ever gained, my friends, by laying the umpire low; far better to let him fade away, and die of his soul's remorse, than to muss the diamond with his remains, or sit on his pulseless corpse. When I was younger I always slew the umpire whose work was bum, and now when I go to my downy couch, the ghosts of the umpires come, and moan and gibber around my bed and rattle their fleshless bones, and call me names of the rankest kind, in their deep, sepulchral tones. I always found, when an umpire died, and rode in the village hearse, that the fellow who came to take his place was sure to be ten times worse. _Sherlock Holmes_