But let him keep on "yappin'" till he's tired and goes away. There's lots of people built like him—yer see 'em everywhere—   Who, 'cause they ain't no use themselves, can't somehow seem ter bear Ter see another feller rise, but in their petty spite And natural meanness, snarl and snap and show they'd like ter bite. They don't come out in front like men, and squarely speak their mind, But like that wuthless yaller pup, they're hangin' 'round behind. They're little and contemptible, but if yer make a slip It must be bothersome ter know they'll take that chance ter nip. But there! perhaps it isn't right ter mind 'em, after all; Perhaps we ought ter thank the Lord our souls ain't quite so small; And they, with all their sneakin' ways, must be, I rather guess, The thorns that prick your fingers 'round the roses of success:   Fer, when yer come ter think of it, they never bark until A feller's really started and a good ways up the hill; So, 'f I was climbin' up ter fame I wouldn't care a rap, But I'd think I was somebody when the curs begun ter "yap."  

 

     THE MINISTER'S WIFE 

  She's little and modest and purty, As red as a rose and as sweet; Her children don't ever look dirty, Her kitchen ain't no way but neat. She's the kind of a woman ter cherish, A help ter a feller through life, Yet every old hen in the parish Is down on the minister's wife.    'Twas Mrs. 'Lige Hawkins begun it; She always has had the idee That the church was built so's she could run it,     'Cause Hawkins is deacon, yer see; She thought that the whole congregation Kept step ter the tune of her fife, But she found 't was a wrong calkerlation Applied ter the minister's wife. Then Mrs. Jedge Jenks got excited—     She thinks she's the whole upper crust;—   When she found the Smiths was invited Ter meet'n', she quit in disgust.   "You can have all the paupers yer choose to,"     Says she, jest as sharp as a knife;   "But if they go ter church I refuse to!"     "Good-by!" says the minister's wife. And then Mrs. Jackson got stuffy At her not comin' sooner ter call, And old Miss Macgregor is huffy     'Cause she went up ter Jackson's at all. Each one of the crowd hates the other, The church has been full of their strife; But now they're all hatin' another, And that one's the minister's wife. But still, all their cackle unheedin', She goes, in her ladylike way, A-givin' the poor what they're needing And helpin' the church every day:   Our numbers each Sunday is swelling And real, true religion is rife, And sometimes I feel like 

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