years, and I'll
never utter a word of complaint.

THE SABBATH-SCHOOL

"We-a love the Sunday-school.
We-a love the Sunday-school.
(Girls)--So do I.
(Boys)-So do I.
(School)--We all love the Sunday-school."

"SPARKLING DEWDROPS."

Some people believe that when General Conference assigned them to the
Committee on Hymn-Book Revision, power and authority were given unto
them to put a half-sole and a new heel on any and all poetry that might
look to them to be a little run over on one side. If they felt as I
do about the lines that head this article they would have "Sunday"
scratched out and "Sabbath" written in before you could bat an eye. The
mere substitution of one word for another may seem a light matter to a
man that has never composed anything more literary than an obituary for
the Western Advocate of Sister Jane Malinda Sprague, who was born in
Westmoreland County, Pennsylvania, in 1816, removed with her parents at
a tender age to New Sardis, Washington County, Ohio, where, etc., etc.
If he wanted to extract a word he would do it, and never even offer to
give the author gas. But I know just how it hurts. I know or can imagine
how the gifted poet that penned the deathless lines I have quoted must
have walked the floor in an agony until every word and syllable was
just to suit him, and so, though I feel sure he meant to write
"Sabbath-school," I don't dare change it.

To most persons one word seems about as good as another, Sunday or
Sabbath, but when there are young people about the house you learn to be
careful how you talk before them. Now, I would not go so far as to say
that "Sunday" is what you might call exactly rowdy, but er... but...
er... Let me illustrate. If a man says, "It's a beautiful Sunday
morning," like enough he has on red-and-green stockings, baggy
knickerbockers, a violet-and-purple sweater, a cap shaped like a
milk-roll, and is smoking a pipe. He very likely carries a bagful of
golf-sticks, or is pumping up his bicycle. But if a man says, "This
beautiful Sabbath morn," you know for a certainty that he wears a
long-tailed black coat, a boiled shirt, and a white tie. He is bald from
his forehead upward, his upper lip is shaven, and his views and those
of the late Robert Reed on the disgusting habit of using tobacco are
absolutely at one.

Not alone a regard for respectability, but the hankering to be
historically accurate, urges me to make the