"The Lord is Good to Me." "The Lord is good to me!" he said, As on his bended knees he knelt Above his meager crust of bread And voiced the gratitude he felt; And from his supplications, he Arose with strength renewed to face The pinchings of his poverty, The sorrows of his humble place. "The Lord is good to me!" she prayed Above her sleeping babe at rest, While smiles of exaltation played Across her features, care oppressed; And from the crib of anguish where The fever-wasted baby slept She happy slipped away from care And all the anxious tears she wept. "The Lord is good to me!" he cried 'Mid life's wild wreck as close he grasped The scattered fragments to his side Of millions lost that once he clasped: And with a peace and thankfulness He never knew when Fortune smiled, He put behind him all distress And laughed as lightly as a child. "The Lord is good to me!" How slight The gifts of God we grateful bless, While countless treasures of delight Escape the praise of thankfulness! Through days of sunshine and of rain, Through nights of griefs and rhapsody, How I forget with high disdain How much the Lord is good to me! Caught on the Fly. In these days of beef trust domination, every man is known by the breakfast food he eats. The charity that covers a multitude of sins generally runs mighty short of blankets in the winter time. Fishing poles are now out of date, but the candidates are bidding mighty lively for the pole that is long enough to reach the persimmon. A Doubtful Voter. "Well, Jimmy, how's your Pa getting along with his corn-shucking and cotton picking?" inquired Bill Smith of his neighbor's son, which neighbor was noted for his industry and thrifty habits. "Pap's gittin' erlong fine with 'em," answered the boy. "Ye see there's five county tickets in the field a-runnin' this year, an' pap's a doubtful voter; an' whenever a candidate comes, pap jes' goes erlong shuckin' corn or pickin' cotton, an' the candidate helps him fer the sake of comp'ny. We've got all our corn shucked, en ef we hev no bad weather, there won't be cotton enough left to pick by 'lection day to lint yer whiskers with!" Another Vintage. "It is more of the Spirit of '76 that we need!" shouted the campaign orator. "I haven't any of the spirits of '76," broke in a bystander in the audience. "But I've a quart of 'white mule' here in my pocket as fine as was ever brewed, if that will relieve your wants any!" Providence Takes Care of his Own. "De Lawd am pow'ful good to de culled fokes," said a negro philosopher speaking from his dusky meditations. "No soonah am de wohtah-millions gone de way ob all de yarth dan de pahsimmons git ripe ernuff toh make de possum fat, bress de Lawd!" Forgotten.