"Well, Sam, how's cotton-picking getting along?" asked a white man of his colored neighbor. "Hain't doin' any cotton-pickin' yit," replied Sam. "'Lection time's a-comin' an' I'm jes' a-votin' erroun' tell the candahdates quit runnin'!" Little Sermons. Religion is too often what the other fellow ought to practice. Good never bears any fruit for you, except when cultivated in your own heart. The devil always has a patent medicine recommended to cure trouble and increase pleasure. Examine the looks of your conscience. It may be only prejudice that has placed its hand-baggage in the wrong room. We are always glad to gather the harvest, which is abundant for the whole world, but are willing to leave the weed-pulling to the other fellow. Love Brings the Song. What if there's trouble And what if there's wrong? God sends the sunshine And Love brings the song! What if you stumble When racing it strong? Love will uplift you, For Love brings the song! Bury your troubles, And life will be long: God sends the sunshine And Love brings the song! Mistah Cotton. Mistah Cotton come toh me In de young spring-time, En he say, say he toh me, "Sambo, bet yuh dime, Dat you'll never pick dat patch! Dat I'll fool yuh crap, Fer de weeds'll make a catch En de bolls'll drap!" Den I chase him up en down, En I take his bet; Chop dat cotton clar toh town; How dis niggah sweat! En I plow him sho'ly fine,-- Wo'k him day en night, En de fust t'ing, how he shine Wid de rows ob white! Mistah Cotton, doan't yuh t'ink Yuh kin fool me now; I'll dis pick yuh quick es wink,-- Lemme show yuh how! Pile yuh in de wagon-bed, Sell yuh, ting a ling! How de silvah-dallahs spread Dat sweet song dey sing! Don't use a telescope to discover your neighbor's faults. Even the sun has a few spots, but it would be a cold day for you without the glory of his shine. Hear the Song. I There are dark and gloomy corners full of sorrow, like as not, But the world is glad with music and it carols everywhere; And if now and then a shadow dwells upon a little spot, There is sunshine on the meadows and the wide ways laugh at care. O, my children! Don't you worry, As you go along; Let your life be glad and cheerful And you'll hear the Song! II. As we wander down the valleys where the griefs of life assail, We will find a few obstructions that are heaping in the road; But with feet that never weary and with hearts that never quail, We shall mount the glory-summits to the Summer-lands' abode. O, my children! Don't you weary As you go along; Climb the path-ways to the hill-tops, And you'll hear the Song! III.