The doctor came, stood by the bed,
And, looking solemn, gravely said,
"Malaria—'tis plainly seen—
Three times a day give him quinine."
Growled grandmamma, "Oh! fiddle-dee-dee!
He's only bilious—seems to me."
One day our grandpa—eighty-four—
Complained that he could see no more;
That, at his age, it worried him
That his good eyesight should grow dim.
"I've often seen it act that way,"
The doctor solemnly did say:
"Malaria—'tis plainly seen—
Three times a day give him quinine."
But grandma said, "I never see!
Old man, you're growing old, like me!"
PUZZLED.
You ask me whether I'm High Church,
You ask me whether I'm Low:
I wish you'd tell the difference,
For I'm sure that I don't know.
I'm just a plain old body,
And my brain works pretty slow;
So I don't know whether I'm High Church,
And I don't know whether I'm Low.
I'm trying to be a Christian,
In the plain, old-fashioned way,
Laid down in my mother's Bible,
And I read it every day,—
Our blessed Lord's life in the Gospels,
Or a comforting Psalm of old,
Or a bit from the Revelation
Of the city whose streets are gold.
Then I pray,—why, I'm generally praying,
Though I don't always kneel or speak out,
But I ask the dear Lord, and keep asking,
Till I fear he is all tired out;
