Life, my brethren, is like plum-cake," began Polly,
impressively folding her floury hands. "In some the plums are all
on the top, and we eat them gayly, till we suddenly find they are
gone. In others the plums sink to the bottom, and we look for them
in vain as we go on, and often come to them when it is too late to
enjoy them. But in the well-made cake, the plums are wisely
scattered all through, and every mouthful is a pleasure. We make
our own cakes, in a great measure, therefore let us look to it, my
brethren, that they are mixed according to the best receipt, baked
in a well regulated oven, and gratefully eaten with a temperate
appetite."
"Good! good!" cried Tom, applauding with the wooden spoon.
"That 's a model sermon, Polly, short, sweet, sensible, and not a bit
sleepy. I 'm one of your parish, and will see that you get your
'celery punctooal,' as old Deacon Morse used to say."
" 'Thank you, brother, my wants is few, and ravens scurser than
they used to be,' as dear old Parson Miller used to answer.
Pages:
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468
469
470
471
472
473
474