Than crowns them now.

And Nature's children, evermore,
Though grown to stately stature,
Must bear the fruit their fathers bore--
The fruit of nature;

Till every thrifty vice is made
The shoulder for a scion,
Cut from the bending trees that shade
The hills of Zion.

Sorrow must crop each passion-shoot,
And pain each lust infernal,
Or human life can bear no fruit
To life eternal.

For angels wait on Providence;
And mark the sundered places,
To graft with gentlest instruments
The heavenly graces.

_Ruth_.

Well, you're a curious creature!
You should have been a preacher.
But look at that bin of potatoes--
Grown in all singular shapes--
Red and in clusters, like grapes,
Or more like tomatoes.