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Jack in the pulpit Preaches to-day, Under the green trees Just over the way. Squirrel and song sparrow, High on their perch, Hear the sweet lily bells Ringing to church. Come hear what his reverence Rises to say In his low, painted pulpit This calm Sabbath day. Meek-faced anemones, Drooping and sad; Great yellow violets, Smiling out glad; Buttercups' faces, Beaming and bright; Clovers with bonnets, Some red and some white; Daisies, their white fingers Half clasped in prayer; Dandelions, proud of The gold of their hair; Innocents, children Guileless and frail, Meek little faces Upturned and pale; Wildwood geraniums, All in their best, Languidly leaning, In purple gauze dressed:— All are assembled This sweet Sabbath day To hear what the priest In his pulpit will say. So much for the preacher: The sermon comes next,— Shall we tell how he preached it And where was his text? Alas! like too many Grown-up folks who play At worship in churches Man-builded to-day,— We heard not the preacher Expound or discuss; But we looked at the people, And they looked at us. We all saw their dresses— Their colors and shapes; The trim of their bonnets, The cut of their capes; We heard the wind organ, The bee and the bird, But of Jack in the pulpit We heard not a word! |