Come, faint old man! and sit awhile
Beside our cottage door;
A cup of water from the spring,
A loaf to bless the poor,
We give with cheerful hearts, for God
Hath given us of his store.
Too feeble, thou, for daily toil,
Too weak to earn thy bread--
For th' weight of many, many years,
Lies heavy on thy head--
A wanderer, want, thy weary feet,
Hath to our cottage led.
Come rest awhile. 'Twill not be long,
Ere thy faint head shall know
A deeper, calmer, better rest,
Than cometh here below;
When He, who loveth every one,
Shall call thee hence to go.
God bless thee in thy wanderings!
Wherever they may be,
And make the ears of every one
Attentive to thy plea;
A double blessing will be theirs,
Who kindly turn to thee.
STORY OF A STOLEN PEN.
WRITTEN BY ITSELF.
My friend, Theodore Thinker, who is an odd sort of a genius, and
frequently takes up things after a singular fashion, has put into my
hands a paper with this caption: "Story of a Stolen Pen, written by
itself." It seems, from a somewhat lengthy introduction--too lengthy to
be here quoted--that the pen once belonged to some editor or another;
and as Theodore has something to do with editorial matters himself, I
should not wonder if he is the one. Some curious readers may be disposed
to inquire how the pen was made to talk so fluently, and perhaps some
others would like to know how it was found in the first place. I can't
answer these reasonable inquiries. The manuscript is entirely silent on
both points. I have my conjectures in relation to the thing--pretty
strong conjectures, too. I guess the whole story is a fable, to tell the
truth. But never mind. There is a great deal of sense in fables
sometimes; and who knows but there may be some in this? At all events,
we must have