Whenever I see one of this class, trying with all his might to pass for a
saint, with his face as long as a yard-stick, or, perhaps, all lighted up
with kindly smiles, I can't help thinking of the pistareen. It will come
into my mind in spite of all I can do. Why, all the time the man is putting
on these airs, he is plotting some scheme for selfish gain, or some
mischief, just as likely as not. "He does not rise toward heaven like the
lark, to make music, but like the hawk, to dart down upon his prey. If he
goes up the Mount of Olives to kneel in prayer, he is about to build an
oil-mill up there. If he weeps by the brook Kedron, he is making ready to
fish for eels, or else to drown somebody in the stream." Poor man! he has a
hard time of it, trying to keep up appearances. But it will be harder
still, by and by, if he does not look out. He cannot carry his mask with
him into the other world. There no one will pass for any more than he is
worth.
LAMENT OF THE INVALID.
The earth is arrayed in the robes of spring,
And by the soft zephyr the green leaves are stirred;
With the wood-bird's note the pine forests ring,
And the voice of the robin's glad music is heard.
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