Each of the Four Numbers of "100 Choice Selections" contained in this volume is paged separately, and the Index is made to corres pond therewith. See EXPLANATION on first page of Contents. The entire book contains nearly 1000 pages. 100 CHOICE SELECTIONS. No. 6. ALL'S FOR THE BEST.-M. F. TUPPER. All's for the best-if a man could but know it, This is no dream of the pundit or poet, All's for the best! set this on your standard, Who to the shores of despair may have wandered, All's for the best! then fling away terrors, Meet all your fears and your foes in the van, Providence reigns from the east to the west, A MINISTER'S QUARTER PAY-DAY. A hundred dollars, and fifty more, But the day had come, and for youthful sport A day like that, when this scant support The children danced, and giggled, and grinned, And smiles broke forth on the visage thinned The Parish Collector sat him down, The tithes he'd gathered about the town, It was not much of a cram at that, But such as it was, without much risk, He spread it round on the parson's desk, But little of shining gold was there, And less from the silver mine; And bank bills-they were exceeding rare! First came a note for a little sum, Which the poor man late had given The doctor had drawn for his small amount, And all intended their bills should count The good collector reckoned them up; "Twas a bitter drug in his brimming cup Who knows what pain the Parson endures Which the world can never forget, When a man of ease like a minister, "And here, besides, is a lot of cash,- Your daughters in satin now may dash, A little of this for a rainy day By a walk instead of a ride. "For money is scarce, and the times are hard, And you, sir, are getting gray, And you may not fare as you here have fared Should the people turn you away. We've given you here a large support, And the farmers all complain That the crops this year will be dreadful short If we don't soon have some rain. "We can't long pay such enormous sums As we have to pay you now, For you know the pay-day often comes, And the Squire has lost a cow; And one of old Goodwin's sheep is dead, The tender shepherd here turned his head, Of this the Collector no note took; He took his hat with a cheerful smile, Then rode away to his home, a mile, The Parson rose as he left the room, He closed his door, and resumed his chair, He seemed half choked for a breath of air, He thought of his children's needy feet, And the question arose, "What shall we eat? He thought of the ravens, how they're fed, With tender emotions all astir In the Parson's heaving breast, His children's mother-he thought of her Still needed a hood, and cloth, and thread, Till, pressed in spirit, he knelt and prayed The evening came, and he met his wife, He sat serene in the central seat, And his wife sewed near his side; But when he went to his nightly bed, But His who once for the thankless groaned |